That black bird Hunched in the rain on a pole, Knows my soul for its similarity And cries out once, without blinking. But I am too distant And he turns his head, While the steel cubes of men hiss mindlessly by me. They are blank, cars, and have no soul And I cannot Tell whether one might skid suddenly And destroy me. My fragile egg body Walks gingerly in the wet And I feel the same shame that draped me When, seven, I pissed myself in the mall.