In the middle of the road
Where the asphalt runs thick
And spring heat liquefies the nearby air
Lies a bird.
It’s yellow and red
Now a lifeless vision.
—
There are many troubling questions.
How far did he fly?
Is this his native land?
Where do you bury a migratory bird?–
Should I fly down to Guatemala?
Or offer it, in some secluded spot,
To the vultures?
—
But I scrape it off the road,
Remove it from the sticky profanity
And rub away some dirt
From a secluded spot,
A place resonant with dignity–
Affirming our’s as well–
Cover it with twigs and mulch,
And whisper an apology.
—
How many bright visions
Lie lifeless on our roads?
Let us tend, then,
To our unburied dead.
