adventures in dysthymia

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Raccoon, Rabid, a poem

Raccoon, Rabid

Thin, staggering along
the center line of the blacktop —
it would not last much longer.

Should I have swerved
and ended it instead of slowing
and then driving by?

When summer’s heat drives
other creatures into the shadows
I and the raccoon are here,

each with our own sort of madness.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

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