Three Junk Yard Cats

Between Fort Point Channel
And the train tracks there is
a junk yard that opens every
morning about the time I walk by.

The owner rattles the lock and chain
against the fence as he turns the key
in the padlock, and out come three cats,
blinking in the sun if it’s shining,

sniffing the air with wiggling noses
to take in the smell of the ocean
and the tang of fish in the air.
They look around, hardened

in varying degrees according to their
ages, a little like the people getting off
the trains from the west and south;
the younger, spotted one eager for

adventure, the two elders—its parents?—
sitting back and taking it all in.  There must
be wharf rats aplenty, they must think, no
need to hustle after the first one you see.