The Dead Cat Poem by jolenish fiber

I don't know why, but I keep thinking back to this dead cat that I saw not a month passed. It was a small black cat, stiff, cold, bug invaded. I pulled over to see if it was just hit, if he could still be saved. I got close enough to see it's broken teeth, and white tipped paws. It made me wonder if it had been loved and owned by someone unaware of this cat's whereabouts, since no one hardly ever puts collars on cats anymore, but I was doubtfull somehow. It's sprawed body was laying at the beginning of a dirt drive, and wouldn't be found unless looked for. So why did I happen to see it then? And why have I thought of it since so often? I have hit a cyote and a few squirrels, and bashed a few birds, seen many deer, porquipines, rabbits, and so on. Why would this cat bother me, or not so much bother me, but take hold of my brain in such a way, that I would think if it so much? This must not be a topic many would enjoy of find so facintaing, but it occurs to me enough that I needed to write about it and share it to whomever it may interest.