A bit washed out, bedraggled
with his rattail and wet neck spikes
lumbering skyward into a crosswind
tilting something awful,
all-elbows, defiant
as a plywood-sided trailer listing between lanes,
he sounds his indignant, prehistoric squawk
over the carp roiling in runoff,
their mouths’ rubber rings
singing mute hosannas.
Show Comments (
)
Comments are automatically closed two weeks after an article's initial publication. See our comments policy for more.
