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by Thomas D. Reynolds

After being
struck by a car,
or striking it
with his back
on the front wheel
and bounding free,
a sickening thud
echoing off the garage,
the old tomcat
disappeared into the night.
At ten-thirty,
I checked his box,
the flashlight finding
two glowing green eyes.
He moved as if underwater,
raising one leg
like a crab,
then setting it down
onto the rocks.
He sniffed his paw
as if it were some
strange object.
His hurt deeper
than physical,
his confusion that
of the child
wandering in wreckage
of a downed 747,
still clutching a frayed
end of her seatbelt.

Copyright © 2005 by Thomas D. Reynolds

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