September Poem 15: Roadkill

Roadkill. When you raise your voice. Cloud the rain

Masquerading. He was involved. Bite sized.

French. The massive container ships of toast

Made from hardy hibiscus. The kind of

Culebra Cut passings in the feedbox.

Return. The corner. And you. Adorned with

A large bag of grape Skittles and the sharp

Cold of your own overfull ashtray. Time.

Spirit. More in the white wet springs creaking

In their own dry scratch like a summer wind

That arose in thinking animals. Like

To absurdity in the word’s engraved

Sandals. Hacking emotional problems.

Flier in frustration. In frustration.

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