Here is a poem.
Another New York poem called "Looking for a Soul Mate."
Recovering puff pastry and Elmo cookie
addict, formerly associated with a French bakery in Soho,
and one or two choice sewers in the neighborhood
where he learned a few deep things about life.
Reduced of late to lurking outside cheap eateries,
concealing his twitching whiskers behind a trash can,
or fighting with pigeons of a few popcorn.
Now seeks a comfortable brownstone free
of cats, slap traps, and lip-smacking snacks
laced with poison.
Whose wealthy owner gives lavish dinner
parties, and where he'll be free to mingle with bankers
and lawyers, and sit in their wives' laps
like a much pampered pet.