I read my horoscope in coffee grains.

With my pulverized future

in my denim pocket, I go out walking.

 

At West and 37th, in front of Spokeland,

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

now dead to me, I snuggled with Jose

when Brittany declared, “We’re done.”

I must say she’s my ex.

 

Now I can reclaim Jose as my own.

I’ll search for him on 37th,

trudge up MLK Way,

saunter along Telegraph.

 

If I fail to find him in Temescal,

I’ll abandon my coffee grain horoscope

next to Church’s Texas Chicken.

 

The neon ‘OPEN’ sign

always greases my eyes

when I step inside with a feline smile.

 

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