Roadkill
Roadkill they call it.
But that raccoon wasnt dead, yet.
Half its brain on the road
And half in its head,
The former smashed to the asphalt,
The later still controlling baser impulses.
Its back feet kicked,
Raising the hind quarters just a few inches
Again and Again and Again,
Pure instinct at war with the death throes.
It wasn't at all like the dog I saw
Many years ago,
Its body minus crow fed intestines,
Draped over a shovel,
A black scarf caressing a neck.
~Darklign Plain, Aug. 24, 2006
No comments:
Post a Comment