Rachel Lindo, Contributor
I make my way down France Ave,
pokeweed beetles cluster the crumbling
black bike path, late guests to a beaver’s wake
going on ten feet further down.
The beaver lay spread eagle,
his gnawed on lips boiled in the sun
from a damned kiss on a car’s fender.
He had an estranged amphibian lover,
she couldn’t make it to his funeral either.
She forgot her loose leaf speech at home
and when she rushed her leaps,
a tire smashed her needle bones.
At the crosswalk the frog’s girlfriend,
a sparrow adorned in Fashion Week’s feathers,
nestled dead with melted candles left behind
with cross dressed in the finest duct tape
where a woman’s body crunched through a windshield
embracing the stoplight.
This article first appeared in the Friday, October 12 edition of The Echo.