I saw nine of them sleeping in the sun.
They were like dead gladiators from several nations:
One was a fierce African, he wore
a helmet of battered fur; two were
Asians, they had mysterious Eastern masks
strapped firmly to their faces with tiger stripes;
three were stout Persians, they were bundled in robes
of white, off-white, and gray; two were obviously
barbarians, dingy but very strong;
one was delicate and slight, but his proud scars
were long and overlapping like twine.

One by one they rose from the crumbling pedestals
as a half-bowl splash of sunlight leaked
from the Colosseum and drenched the hills of Rome.
Late afternoon. Time for these gladiators
to rat where lions roared centuries back.
I watched them go. The wind rose from the throats
of a hundred entrances and became one cry.
Like rude Romans, the tourists spinkled popcorn and pretzels
on the stained stones. The cats went deeper
into the arena, under the wheels of invisible chariots.
I stared at my imaginary emperor,
and I cheered as he pointed his thumb at the ground.
Then my blood rose along the Tiber of my veins,
and the nine brave cats disappeared into a lion's pit.
It was nearly dark when I left the Colosseum.