The Old Cat
Ayendy Bonifacio
1
More a mass
than anything —
I took the old cat
to its designated
place of rest
below
a bridge of stone
built late in
the nineteenth
century — observing
Highland Park and
a dirt path for skinny
rain water. No true river
ran beneath its crown.
The bellows of homeless
leviathans — cradling a
thinning flame — knelling embers —
chiaroscuroing curved shadows
on the zenith of stones: kitty heaven.