Graveyards are for cats, the smooth
marble statuary a cool complement
to fur, even in Rome in July. I mourn
a man I could never have known,
and Pepeluce raises a white whiskered
eyebrow, wondering why I am not
letting someone buy me drinks
off of Via del Corso or charming
flowers from Trevi pickpockets.
You're not dead yet, he says, all too
happy to be pet but ready to run.
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