had been dead awhile, I think.
My speeding -- ten miles over,
not conducive to a closer peek
(not that I would). I couldn't
smell the stink and was prevented
from much more than both a literal
and figurative passing thought.
Hours later, at the house again
with time to ponder things like
Life and road kill tragedies,
I wondered if it saw the car
(or that far west of town, the truck)
that struck him down so late at night.
A metaphor of sorts I ought to
pay attention to, the upturned hooves
and swollen belly quite the "look
at me, consider!" kind of happenstance
that often can illuminate, this hog
that lies alone beside the road.
Both he and I (unless it was a sow)
don't always get a warning
when a sudden mishap (so to speak)
can take the wind out of our sails
or pull the rug out from our feet
or hits us, leaving us to rot
when all we planned to do
was cross the street. When next I see
a light that's coming from afar,
I think I'll stop and chew another piece
of grass and wait until it's past
before I make my way into an asphalt
zone of death.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022
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