Driving Around
For two years he lasted picking up the bodies
of deer blasted into pieces on the roadside
raccoons, possums, cats, an occasional
vulture or goose, birds more fleet having air
to rise into. Mostly it was earthbound ones
filled with worms, bug-eyed, the carcass moving
with the force of what is hungry inside never
minding him too much hoisting everything up
into the bed of the truck. He lasted two years.
A white dog unharmed it seemed sleeping still
by the roadside undid him. Lifting its body
lolling and still warm he placed it on the seat
beside him as he drove home trailing the stink
of his work through town and buried the animal
in his front yard, three quartz stones as big as
skulls to mark the place. Look, we just passed it.
Let me back up. No I didn’t say dog. It was a boy.
Neighbors saw him bury him in the plain of day.
Neighbors saw the cops and what they say is
he killed the boy and buried him and came
loose with a hatchet at the law. I don’t know.
You could hear the blam-blam-blam a mile away.
My brother loved his wife and his boy, both.
There are many things that are never ok. Most.
Don’t ever tell me anything is ok. Don’t ever
tell me nothing. You can get out here and walk.