There’s a girl on a corner with a siamese cat like a siamese twin hiding in her backpack. She says to her kitty, “Kitty, why do you want to go?” He says, “I don’t feel loved, as if you didn’t already know.” I watch the girl get on a bus, and the cat ducks down so he doesn’t cause a fuss. One hand in her pocket, one hand through her hair, and it takes her three minutes to dig out her fare. And the cat’s head pokes up, and he’s whispering, whispering, “When are you going to take some time for me? When are you going to tell me you’re sorry now? I’ve been patient all my life, and now I’m going to live what’s left behind.” I watch them both with my telescope, watching both of her hands on a bottle of Coke, and her medic alert tag says she’s okay, just allergic to peanuts so she’d better stay away. The cat sees me, he senses my eyes, and he says in sign language that he doesn’t really mind. I try to wave him back with a semaphore flag, but he’s launched his head deep inside the bag. But I can see it in his mind, and he’s whispering, whispering chorus. From Washington to Bethlehem, he walks the streets, walks them over again, and he posts his heart on a telephone line and he plants his shoulders on a parking fine. But I can see it in his mind, and he’s whispering, whispering chorus.