HOWARD McCORD: POETRY & PROSE
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POETRY | POEM 17 |
It's Getting Dark
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  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?