Writing on Wednesdays #2 

From the one you throw stones at when I sit on your garden wall. 

 Hi from the street. This is my kingdom. The trash laden back alleys, full of forgotten toys, thrown away by children who got something better last year for Christmas. Once I might have had a home, a vague memory of somewhere, a place to be still for longer than ten minutes, a place to call my food my own. But, I can’t remember anymore, not the faces of those who may have cared for me, not the chair that I slept in til it was mine. Now, I rule the street. My territory is the corner down from your house. I’m the one who watches you while you walk, no, stumble back after another pointless night of intoxication. I can see you in the light, even when it’s dark. And when you’re in bed, tucked in and sleeping, dreaming of money or sex or whatever it is your kind dream of. I ignite, eyes alert, pupils wide, reflecting the lamplight above, watching, waiting, ready to defend what is mine, don’t get too close; I might just 
pounce. 

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