Poetry
Poem: Road Kill
Its autumn, the leaves are changing
and we’re traveling east on Route 212.
Good friends accompany us,
guys up front, gals in back.
The plan, a quick meal at Fez,
an average Middle Eastern restaurant,
take in a few sights, shops, the bookstore,
before the poetry reading in town.
The girls, old friends from high school,
catch up, Tommy is working the radio.
with roadkill. I see only dead Vietnamese—
road meat, different stages of decomposition.
An older man, blackened sunken face,
his arms frozen in a ungainly pose. Another,
a young woman, a fresh kill, her conical hat
blowing down the road. I want to turn around
but can’t. In the rearview mirror, as we enter
Saugerties, a few arise. They help each other
gather their belongings, and one starts to plant rice.
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