HARRY

Runt of the litter, long-haired gray tom
that will never make it here, bent tail
riding parallel beside him, you plugged

into whoever’d take him –
now whines high on a log end
beneath the gutter in the rain, alone
disgruntled with the weather.

His family has abandoned him again –
not even the dogs are interested
in a stare down, each meow complains.

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