stray cat.
Slow mass crawling across the yard.
The cat was born white but nature made it dirt brown.
Sitting there on the hill like a typical shrub.
A pile of fur - underfed.
It cries and it wanders, following me around my daily routine.
I stop occasionally. Guilt for its condition that I can't control.
'I would feed you but you'd suffer in the long run,' I say.
'What happens the next day when food doesn't come?' I ask him.
Your brother lives next door fat and happy, your sister killed by a semi-truck.
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