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.