Highway Crows

The strutting crows inspect

A littered highway shoulder where

Their memories summon carrion.

I phone you…

The radiance of sanguine viscera,

Ensconced in body fur,

Puddles just below a stand of Queen Anne’s lace.

You say hello…

The luxe of jellied organs,

A putrefying transfix for the crows.

I’m lost and don’t know what to say,

The crows begin to gorge their craws

With pink and stifling pudding bits.

Recradle the receiver, saving face…

I’m different from the crows you see.

— Bill Schubart, November 1993