when a tourist trips, there is an orange cat who likes to lie out of the rain.
He lies sprawled, fat and unafraid: a splash of color to add to shattered
pottery in a collage of cheerfulness the paradox of a tomb
that sounded the death knell for more than a young man in traditional dress
trapped by the cumbersome customs of old. The mournful mist rolls in on cue.
Instead of listening to the whispers in the corner I turn to the cat.
He purrs as the rain patters down slick black steps.