When I noticed the serpent so still on the side
of the road, I had thought it a cast-off snake hide,
but on closer inspection I saw it had died.
Through a split in its brown and gray skin, buzzing flies
laid white eggs, so their grubs will devour this prize
like some grunts that will stuff greedy maws with home fries
at some greasy spoon after a hard day of toil.
The creature appeared as if ready to coil
by the neighborhood reservoir flashing like foil.
Had it been alert,
would it have been hurt?
Its belly, a yellowish-white embrocation
graced by reddish half moons (an ornate decoration),
had supported the beast in its wet habitation.
Where eyes had once been, gaping apertures eyed
my own eyeballs as though I were foe as I spied,
leading up to it, tire tracks SUV-wide.
Now it is inert,
a starched and trunkless shirt.
It knew less about cars than we do of dark matter,
so didn’t foresee that its waist could get flatter,
mashed like a banana sprawled out on a platter.
Soon it will revert
to cool and mossy dirt.
(Appeared in Soundzine.)