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July 9, 2012

Today I found two legs
embedded in hot road,
padded like a honey bee’s
with pockets for small bombs

and meaningful box-shapes.
The rest–hard trunk, head, arms–
crushed to powder on a chance
stone. The child that let

it fall forgot. The car
that smashed it never saw
or even felt it go. And no
one but me knows it

still exists, caked in
tar, draped in litter,
in my running pouch or could
predict its trip from thought

to pip of plastic to
instrument of play
to this almost unwitnessed end.
Almost is crucial, though.

That’s all I have to say.



From → Trashword Poems

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