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?