Who cleans the killed from the road?
Who takes the broken and buries them?
Who stops the traffic? They’re not always around.
The skunk is nothing more than a dark spot
Along the intersection before the interstate.
I watched it wither away over three months
Each day becoming less recognizable
Each day sinking lower into the ground
I think the tuff of its tail snapped off
And rolled down the slope, into more traffic.
Where were they? Why was this one not moved?
When I am run over will you scrape me from asphalt
Or leave me to bake in the summer sun
Until I am as nothing as now, true nothing,
Flattened and forgotten and forsaken?