All right, so you don't want to take the ecology challenge. Maybe you'll read a poem. This was written, I dunno, a year or two ago.
Bag of Bones
It was an opossum,
now it’s only a pile
of gore
on the hundred and eight
degree pavement of Six
Mile.
Bloody tire track impressed
in the carcass, splintering
bones and squeezing the life
out of organs.
We drive
on past, not giving it
a second thought.
Paying more heed to the
heat than the decay.
How long are the dead remembered?
Who besides the paid groundskeeper
Trims around the stone fifty years hence?
Who prays for the opossum’s soul?
Comments