Once, I lived in a town where it never rained
and boys liked pink more than blue.
It was June, and behind the house, someone
ran over a coyote in the middle of the night.
It was scrawny, lost. I should have cried.
No. Instead, I opened the door to my car
and stood for a minute, gazing at the blood,
the nails on the front right paw. It would have
bit me when I crouched, half-tempted to poke.
After two vultures paced in the brush for a while--
hidden from headlights--and I drove off, they
pulled out intestines, picked off fur, tearing
it to the shreds I wished I was. And
when I got home, turned the house light on,
folded up the night, I fell asleep, feeling nothing.
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