There is a poem
lying beside the road, its red
fur ablaze in the morning sunlight.
The spine of the poem is broken
and one leg is partially severed
exposing ligament and bone.
The words are still wet beside
the body. Sentences are smeared
along the roadside and
the car that did not stop.
The composition is still warm to the touch.
I slowly stroke the soft fur and
admire the long bushy tale.
The poem’s pain is set upon the muzzle,
but the blue-gray eyes are at peace.
They see something I cannot.
I gather what words I can and
hold the poem close to my chest.
Unnoticed, by the world of man,
I carry the poem into the woods.
This is no place for a beautiful poem
John Haworth is a poet and writer in pursuit of the modern mythology.