I see it for just a moment A squishy mound of fur to the far right of the asphalt
This latest pile of dislocated mush is presented on a desert highway A raccoon? No. Too small. A coyote? Maybe. Who can tell?
That play-dough pile of crushed bones was not created outside the white lines where it now lays Some chosen soul scraped and scooped the mystery meat to its resting place Some jumpsuit wearing civilian is intimately aware with the parentage of the reassembled road victim Do they have a moment of silence after the last shovel scrape? Do they hold an internal roadside memorial?
What of the homicidal perpetrator behind his wheels? He must know the identity of his victim He must feel the agony of guilt Or, is his only remorse in the quarters he must spend at the self-service carwash to remove the evidence?
Perhaps Road-**** animals haunt their vehicle killers Maybe their blood can never be truly washed from the ****** weapon’s shinny surface Like spots on Lady Macbeth’s hands Perhaps the killer’s dreams are frequented by unidentifiable ****** mounds with eyes that stare from unnatural places
After all Justice must be had in one way or another For the unrecognizable John Doe pile represents all those wild things that must chance to cross the hard, hot, lethal highway