Mustafa

They call me Mustafa

In Karakoy

But dry food is not enough

A bowl of water?

I have no need

I drink from puddles

Crossing the Galata Bridge

They call me Mehmet

They have fish

Some caught, some scraps

But  moist and salty

I drink from puddles

In Tophane

Such riches

Unfinished iskender

I pull the slices

From stale pitta bread

I drink from puddles

Here I have no name

Tophane is no home

For the likes of me

I lower the tone

Tourists don't want stray cats

So I get moved on

Back in Karakoy

Ignoring my progeny

I seek a wife

One who won't scratch me

They call me Mustafa

I drink from puddles