Rehabilitation with no Direction

My cat, mute and wiser than me,
un gato malo,
does not understand my direction,
my rambles about sobriety. It is
for the dogs - his eyes tell me this.

There are heavy things afoot:
manslaughter
armed burglary
dangerous drugs
aiding and abetting
and
a federal fugitive warrant
but they, THEY have Pancho
in jail now. He is
being reformed
redabilitated. My cat
doubts it. My cat
sneers cynically.

Un Gato Malo. In
Berkeley, Paul and
Greg have been busted
with no word of bail
--I write
with an eye
on the phone as if
its ring could be
seen. Greg, my radical
and once almost brother-in-law
friend
whose gift of wine
is still unopened; Paul,
would-be-Bokonon
of the desert
friend
would like my mute
cat, my wise Persian
of dry humorless meows.

Un Gato Malo is a member
of our karass. He
expects change. He and I
wait together to see
the sound of the telephone.
He is my only cat,
a perfect companion.
I assist him in his despair.