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 and hunt
Beneath the punches of delivery trucks,
And the war cries of commerce.
I suppose I felt guilty, although my days
Pass there also,
Because I am part of that
Desolation, we made and called a