I

This city is full of cats—

cats everywhere, lounging in the street,

on the fruit stands and windowsills—

in all colors: black, of course, and tabbies,

but mostly calicos, piebald

or particolor black with orange veins.

II

The open-air market sits by the sea,

perpendicular to the docks where fish stalls

battle for dominance with food stands,

low tide versus roasted peanuts and garlic knots.

Children buy lollipops with wet dollar bills,

then run to dip them in the salty water.

III

Flowers, thousands, wash up on the beach every morning,

and with them small plastic toys.

I used to keep the most fragrant ones, years ago,

but now I throw them back. We all throw them back,

clutching wet armfuls and heaving them into the sea.

We don't need them. The toys I keep and give to children.

IV

When the sun goes down, we can go under the boardwalk,

pick our way between milk cartons and a queening calico

and buy some weed from the kids who gather there.

We cup our hands to keep the sea breeze out.

A pinlight dances cherry red

sending ghosts spinning and spinning into the night.

V

The arcade is lit up in searing yellows and reds

each slick countertop gleaming like candy.

I try to win you an hourglass from the crane game,

the one with the most cats clustered around it.

You get us a fistful of sugar skulls for a nickel

and we play Gauntlet with sticky hands.

VI

When the arcades and stores are all closed

the sky and sea press in like cold earth,

all black. A construction floodlight

cuts the fog where a flyblown calico cuts a bolero

with an Oriental Shorthair, ghost-black,

their tails intertwined. A calliope plays.