221. HANDS IN THE STREET

HANDS IN THE STREET
Washed in holy water - running off the roofs
of the overhead tracks - and bathed in old
civil war bloods with no men in between,
I little knew what space I was taking up.
I bent down to get up, and just then
something caught my eye. The corner post
where the old elevated line turned the corner -
train tracks to some mad oblivion - held a boxful
of kittens someone had left. They seemed as helpless
as me - stuck in a box and too young to get out.
Meowing in a polite frustration, with their small paws
but sliding back on the wet cardboard they were in,
it seemed as if even they weren't sure yet if they
could see. Or wanted to. This desperate situation
was set-up for something bad. I knew I was no
better than they were, stuck in my way in a very-same
box. What to do, oh what to do? I took the box from
the rain and the drips, and at least positioned it dry -
a token esteem I could do for them. Not much else.
Thinking of them - and the taxi sheds nearby - I made
them dry and walked away into my own small night.