The traffic barely stopped, the day I saw
a small dog bolt an open window, hit
the freeway, bounce beneath a car, then go
spinning across the lanes. Good doggie. Sit
with Death. What kind of people let this shit
happen to animals? It happens every
day; bodies pummeled, twisted, split
an entrail field from which the conscience severs
itself. These days, each time I come upon
a lump of something by the road, I cross
myself, the way good Catholics do, the sign
that's meant to fortify against our loss.
It's just some carpet. Just some cardboard. Just
I pray for trash, for blight. I pray. I must.