A Typical Mourning on the Country Road

The morning sets aside no time to mourn
though I see bodies from which life’s been torn
the guts that are there plastered on the ground
yield not to efforts at poetic sound.
Road kill — anticlimax — I must drive fast
to leave my thoughts for vultures and get passed
that yesterday — the stillness on the hill
the marvel of your movements that then still
could offer forth a beauty — subtle, true
and not this harsh caricature of you.
You’re not so graceful now, with open mouth
and rude tongue comically stopped — pointing south
where, on this too familiar driving loop,
awaits a week-old portion of duck soup.


Happy National Poetry Month — Day 2!


(Photography courtesy Acton Wright.)


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