Nothing indexes progress like road kill.
Creaking wagon wheels rarely caught
the possum mimicking his own demise.
Even the fleet hoofs of the lawman's
stallion failed to freeze the furred skunk
or his stench on dissolving plates
of Americana, but today my Civic's tires
cradled the indecision of a fleeing squirrel
and I surrendered to speed, the thought
of home, ham on rye at my kitchen counter.
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