There is a dead cat in a box of trash on the sidewalk
following Freeman Street. The tail is unfurled in deep rigor
mortis and its paws are flexed, revealing claws that used
to scratch couch corners. The tabby rests beside a baby
doll, her plastic flesh colored black, her brown cow eyes gazing
straight ahead. As if she is bored with death. Which is unjust,
I think every morning as I pass the box. Trying to avoid the dead
stares, I picture freshly planted roses, or sugar cookies,
warm and gooey, as I leave them there and shuffle
past, with my tail between my legs.
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1 comment:
yesterday i went to a funeral for a man i didn't know. with no personal emotion attached, the sensation was much like the death in this poem you described - there is something important about being around a dead human body every so often in our lives - it keeps us focused on what's important; living.
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