The More It Changes

Fifteen storeys high, the black curtains drawn, and
The sun is just a brat that spits and the goes away. The
T.V. chatters, there’s a pile of letters scattered on The mat. Reminders, bills--they smell of cats. Three
Starving cats who chase each others' shadows. They
Curl up on him overnight and scratch him, and bite
Him. .. But he lost the will to fight, and he lost the
Will to move. .. It’s been a month, will be another,
Until the busting down the door. They’ll carry him
Away; they’ll strip him clean. They’ll lock him in a Padded box some fifteen storeys high
Where the sun is just a brat that spits then goes away.