Analysis of Helplessness

Huddled way back in their wire drawers,
they stared out at me,
red eyes almost glowing, white fur dull.

In drawers no bigger than footballs,
in a room no bigger than a closet,
they sat, and waited, for the pain, for death.

I woke up this morning,
and an unknown white was creeping
up my black shoes,
creeping and rising, sad and clinging.
Now it could have been the acid rain
I had sloshed through that night,
but my mind screamed a different note

The white unknown was their blood;
red blood somehow made white,
as white as the fur on their trembling little bodies.
And it was on my shoes.

I frantically scrubbed at it this morning with a damp papertowel,
scrubbed, until the paper ripped and shredded beneath my fingers.