Another Roadkill Poem by Joseph Briggs

I’m always trying to ignore the dead goose
tangled like rope on the shoulder of the road,
trying also to ignore the fake pink bouquet
dangling off one nail off the cross near the stop
sign dedicated to the young girl who died on the
scene but my eyes will be magnets forever
for the living turned still with or without will
of the fallen involved in that moment of death.
I’m always driving through the hills and the
morning fog rises like the heat from my coffee
and the dead are here and gone shrinking
fast as my compassion in the rearview mirror.
There is always a river I can cross or not
and just sit and listen for the birds to answer
questions I didn’t know the river was urging me
to ask until I finally did.

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