I read my horoscope in coffee grains.

With my future only in pulverized form,

I go out walking.

 

At the West MacArthur intersection,

I spot a lost cat poster

pinned to a street pole

like another messiah I don’t believe in.

 

More than the holes 

in a crucified man’s hands,

I’ve come to worship 

a caffeinated spike. 

 

I slurp back my religion

as I stare into this cat’s gemstone eyes: 

I know this feline —

his name is Jose. 

 

My girlfriend Brittany 

claimed him last Easter 

after his stray fur 

darted into a dirty Lake Merritt. 

 

On a Good Friday 

crucified in memory, I snuggled with Jose

when Brittany said we were done.

I must say she’s my ex.

I’ve held this back until now. 

 

Do you still trust me? We’ll search

for Jose together

down north Oakland sidewalks.

 

My horoscope says I must keep active 

or my imagination will escape me

akin to a cat surviving in the urban wild. 

 

Originally published in The Town: An Anthology of Oakland Poets (Nomadic Press, August 2023)