HOWARD McCORD: POETRY & PROSE |
|
|
POETRY | POEM 17 | It's Getting Dark |
| NEXT POEM | PREVIOUS POEM | |
|
| Something is dead out back By the smell. Perhaps the possum that has not Appeared for nights And lets the garbage bags Hold in their nervous contents. Or maybe it is the feral dog I shot at, the one which Hamstrung the deer. Who can tell what thing Has exercised the old Inalienable right To die anywhere And let others Take care of the mess? |
|