PG · Poetry

Road Kill

I prefer my road kill as dead as possible:

its face ripped off,

its paws dragged along

the last mile and a half of the interstate,

the skin of its back zested off

like the curled orange rind

floating above the foam topping

a cold mug of blue moon.

 

It’s just no fun when I see

a perfectly healthy looking raccoon

whose neck was barely broken

by a passing semi.

You’ve only got one death to die,

and if you still look alive when you die,

not getting any rubberneckers,

then you’re doing it wrong.

 

If you look like you’re taking a nap

with both eyes open, and

your tongue barely sticking out,

I just hear McCartney’s “Rocky Raccoon”

or think about Guardians of the Galaxy.

You’re supposed to be sad and horrifying,

gifting me some sort of “Memento Mori” moment,

but you just look like an idiot,

sitting there, crudely imitating life.

 

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