Keats’ Cats

Keats’ Cats

All cats are saints,
Except Keats’ cats
Keats’ cats nap on Keats’ coats,
Laid atop Keats’ cot —
The cot Keats keeps by the oven
Why not?
It’s warm there, in Keats’ kitchen —
And the sounds from the street
Are kept at a distance — at night
The moon and Keats’ cats rise
And take Keats’ kites
and fly outside
Above all the bodegas
And their flowers
And into the windows
Of towering towers
To burgle the gold of the bourgeoisie
Who’ve fled the city, to self-quarantine
In luxury, in bunkers
The cats uncover their stashes
And caches of cash and snacks
And drugs and stuff
To stuff in their sacks
Keats’ cats who
Nimbly slip through the window
And then on Keats’ bright kites alight
Back into the locked down night