The cats of Recoleta

The souls of the dead come out to play?
These are not the skinny feral mange-infested cats that used come out
of the scrub behind my house in California.
Or the spooky matted barn cats with the eternal litter of kittens in
my grandmother's hay loft.

Like Egyptian/Argentine royalty they materialize from the underworld
into the watery sunlight of April.
Sleek, perfectly manicured and coiffed
Two sit meditating the ruin of their neighbor's monument.
One sleeps, sprawled like a heavenly king,
an orange god-cat in the middle of the miniature street
oblivious to the tourists.

We are the only pilgrims to the city of the dead
witness to these stone valentines
made to honor past beauties
and redeem fallen scoundrels
with marble and stained glass.