A feeder of cats I have become Late in life A feeder of cats Those sleek and sometimes shiny Sometimes plump and chunky Often scrawny Seaside lions and tigers Leopards and panthers Those calico, tabby, and orange street cats That roam this city And its beaches on the Black Sea Hungry yet often playful Looking for spots in the sun On cold days Hoping for restaurant scraps They are dumpster divers And hopeful panhandlers Seeking a handout From the merciful Or the overfed Those who pass each day With leftovers Or bags of food Feeding cats is not just about food Not just a matter of mercy It is like stepping into a river And allowing the current to sweep you up and away It is a kind of surrender I suppose An embrace An immersion Joining in this simple way what T.S. Eliot called “Some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing.”* *Lines quoted from T.S. Eliot’s Preludes