By Jean Firth

How long have I been here alone?
This petshop window as my home,
Confined in this small cage,
I only know it seems an age,
Since I was wrenched from all I'd known,
To face the world, afraid, alone.

To be, like hardware, toys or trash,
Sold to someone strange for cash,
Meanwhile to only know the hell,
Of living in a wire cell,
Where I can only lie and pant,
As through the window, sunrays slant
To flood my cage, of wire made,
No corner cool to offer shade
Where I can lie and note the ways
Of people as they stop to gaze.

Some point a finger, other smile,
Some stand and study me a while,
Some hurry by or coldly stare,
And plainly show their lack of care.

Then closing time, the shop folks gone,
I face the night, so drear and long,
When, still within my cage, I lie,
And dream of days not long gone by,
When I had mother, sisters too,
And life was good and all was new,
With space around me and above,
And all was warmth and all was love.

Life could not always be such bliss,
Perhaps, but Lord! Not this. Not this.

Won't someone sigh as they pass by?
Won't someone cry? Won't someone buy?
Won't someone there do more than stare?
Won't someone, God of kittens, care?