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When I feel bad
about homeless cats
I remind myself of
Worse Things—
mass graves, tsunamis,
plagues or fires or famines,
other disasters man-made or
natural. A list that
horrifying but true
could go on for a long, long time.
Halfway through the seventh stanza
most of the homeless cats have grown bored
and wandered away to settle their own fates.
Except for you. Only you linger,
ready for any story I want to tell,
as long as my voice stays soft and I remember
that one part of the one story you care about—
the part where I scratch the perfect spot behind
your always-wary ears.

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