The view from the ledge was glorious,

colors fluttering across the sky like spirits

or wishes on the backs of comets. 

I had been granted mine, a downpour 

to flood me out of the sewer I called home. 

I was a loner, a beatnik, an explorer among 

a pack of scavengers. Content to squirm 

in their stash of nuts and berries, they scoffed 

at my craving for gambas al ajillo served warm 

on porcelain. A lick of Chardonnay. 

How a chord of laughter can mesmerize 

even the brightest of rodents. At the window 

I did my best to puff my cheeks into the charm 

of a chipmunk, curled my tail around 

their misconceptions, grinned as they cheapened 

my moon-washed profile with a flash.

It wasn´t enough. When I shuffled, their shrieks 

swooped down on me like a falcon, knocked me 

off my reveries long before they cornered me 

with their repulsive mops, a dollop of grime 

best swiped clean from their gapes. 

All I desired: table scraps, an exchange 

of pleasantries. A shared passion for matters 

of the mind. To decipher the boundless language 

of tree trunks, ponder earth´s philosophy veined 

through leaves, riddles turning on the breeze.

The children understood. They saw light-years

past my matted fur, my incisors, the bad

press. Past caricatures that would frighten

shadows out of alleyways. They mistook me 

for El Ratoncito Pérez, begged for mercy

on my behalf, and given the chance

I would have squatted in front of his magic door

until their teeth fell out, prowled 

the world for treasures to tuck under 

their pillows. Built them a sparkling 

rocket ship out of devotion. On the way 

down, I heard their voices fluttering among 

a cacophony of traps and bait and cats,

winged farewells to soften my splat.