The street is taken by the cats,
and fences of the neighborhood
can't stop these feline acrobats
enthraled by smells of kitchens' food.
They're striped, black, grey, or dusty white,
with eyes that are two amber drops,
and fat or thin their leaps are light;
their mating moans, no stones can stop.
In prides, these cement tigers stray
and choose our gardens as their space,
where lengthy naps and yawns portray
the same old melancholy face.
The streets are theirs and hold the tracks
of mice to hunt and threats to fear;
out there no one will pat their backs,
or notice when they disappear.