A neighbourhood with no horizon

The cats in this neighbourhood do not smile
Like beggars of food. They are patchy and rough,
More hide than fur, small and sickly,
Completely without the flicking tail of feline grace.
There are more kittens than cats, unripe still,
And finding no legs to rub against, settle like
Broken crates along the streets.

This is a harsh and withered neighbourhood,
All men too preoccupied to extend a twig of concern
Over the rapids.