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.