Cats take dictation from poet John Keats,
Who came to Rome for sunshine’s remedies
But died at twenty-five, work incomplete,
Rehomed in The Eternal City’s stone
Embrace with feral feline company.
They’ve learned to beckon his gentle breath back,
Iambic pentameter vibrations
Encoded through quilled whiskers, then transferred
Via pawprint calligraphy to books.
Cats sensed their master harbored urgent words,
Perhaps to mark each day’s brutalities
And possibilities denied to him.
Content to help maintain his legacy,
Italian cats intently guard his grave.
Their knowing stares convey do not disturb.