Teenagers lick ziggurats of gelato
and walk small muscular dogs.
A cat climbs stucco and drainpipes
but “nine lives” is a longevity
not meant for us— this is the Verona
of the flesh. In its coliseum, I nap
on a slab of stone. Pigeons coo.
Juliet’s gate is stained with graffiti.
Long dead, Catullus stands me up.
I crawl on my knees and run my palm
over the herringbone floor in the inn
named for him. On the sill is a vermilion
and blue sea conch. A second cat, all-gray—
in the hallway—laps milk with its tongue.