tHe BLaCk cAt

The black cat is sleeping. It is sleeping everyday, every time I walk past it. Sometimes, it is curled up on the wrought-iron garden chair. Sometimes it is curled up under the wrought-iron garden chair. Sometimes it is curled up on the cool cement floor with the sun brushing its black fur.

I wonder if it has a name. I wonder when it wakes up. I wandered over and touched it on its soft slightly wet quivering nose and it gave me a dirty look.

Let sleeping cats lie.