Street In Packingtown

IN the gray dust before a frail gray shed, By a board fence obscenely chalked in red, A gray creek willow, left from country days, Flickers pallid in the haze. Beside the gutter of the unpaved street, Tin cans and broken glass about his feet, And a brown whisky bottle, singled out For play from prosier crockery strewn about, Twisting a shoestring noose, a Polack's brat Joylessly torments a cat. His dress, some sister's cast-off wear, Is rolled to leave his stomach bare. His arms and legs with scratches bleed; He twists the cat and pays no heed. He mauls her neither less nor more Because her claws have raked him sore. His eyes, faint-blue and moody, stare From under a pale shock of hair. Neither resentment nor surprise Lights the desert of those eyes -- To hurt and to be hurt; he knows All he will know on earth, or need to know. But there, beneath his willow-tree, His tribal, tutelary tree, The tortured cat across his knee, With hate, perhaps, a threat, maybe, Lithuania looks at me.