On Route
When Whitetails are roadkill
someone must hurry
(I presume they hurry),
to pull the carcass off the blacktop.
A dead deer makes quite the road bump.
It's a sobering thought
as I head along the freeway
one late, and teeming night.
The details of sudden death
are so quickly obscured,
blood swiftly swished away
by the hosing storm.
Is there a wreck in a ditch,
shredded rubber, broken class -
all the diverse debris
of a head-long convergence?
You presume human remains
remain somewhere,
one just has to conjecture the best
of the outright worst.
Behind your rearview mind
the unknown
is still rushing to clean up
all your messy assumptions.
Even so,
carrion crows still hang
from your thoughts.
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