One For the Road
What would eat me were I road kill?
Not a thing, not a thing;
I'd be scooped by the neon men,
stowed inside a ziplock bag,
secreted in the sterile belly,
of another steel wheeled killer.
What would watch my empty vessel?
Not a thing, not a thing;
I'd be stuffed inside a metal draw,
a tag upon my toe,
no moon or sunlight seeing there,
the name and number death assigned.
What flowers would grow where my
blood spilt? Not a thing, not a thing;
I'd be dressed in suit's expensive noire,
hands folded on my chest,
finally compliant,
as they box me one more time.
6/4/17
All Rights Reserved By The Author
David Nickle Read
Copyright © David Nickle Read | Year Posted 2017
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