Every night one cat sleeps in the perch I call the cake plate, pretend ruler of the universe. The other sleeps on the bed, waiting for me to move her before I turn in. Night air blows too cold for an open window. In summer, I leave them open, even in sticky heat. I hear the drunks screaming, the hooker in my building talking phone sex in the parking lot, and at last the street prophet from a loudspeaker. This sounds like the Muslim call to prayer, the
muezzin, but it is a female cop advising people to shut it down.
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