Because I am guilty
I tried to feed the wild red cat
Living somewhere in the yard at work.

What must it be like

To be born in the skull of such a place
To look through that universe
Of ripped plastic, broken wooden pallets,

Spilled grease and glass splinters.
To burn into life below
The steel wall of the boiler room

And the steady silver of the sky,
To pounce, hunt, and hurt
Beneath the punches of delivery trucks,

And the war cries of commerce.
I suppose I pitied him, although my days
Pass there also,

Because we created that
Desolation, and called it a
Life

and he had no choice.