Thirty or more of us
crawl sluggishly through filth
breathing acidic fumes.
The small ones just lay there.
Our once glossy fur
is matted, flea-ridden.
We’re covered in sores.
I’ve resorted to drinking from the
stagnant puddle that grows under the
silent refrigerator.
Our saviors wear facemasks
and thick gloves.
They use huge nets
and trap-door cages
to free us from this
horror.
We run, and screech,
hide, and claw
wanting and fearing what we’ve never known:
fresh air, water, food
a clean spot to sleep on
a needle to end it all.