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Poem

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

Lloyd said…
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Carmilla Rose said…
Hi! Here's a comment to show my appreciation for your awesome blog. :)

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