I have been walking to the same bar for several months
because it is less than a mile from my bedroom window.
On the side of the road where engineers built channels for rainfall
an armadillo's side is broken in several places.
It is close to the end. It seeps like oil into sand.
It looks at me with eyes pearled like a woman or shipwreck.
It is not quite like a bullet blade or boot-heel, waiting
with the pitiable animal that gasps through shattered armor,
tongue scrabbling at the dry leaves and lawn clippings.
Normally I do not prolong misery but I stand here
as red and silver trucks drive by (too tall to see the heaving leather).
Sweat stings my eyes and I leave the leper to the sun.
It's 3:15 and I have a pitcher of beer and a cold glass.
Slowly the bar fills up with people. The body will rot.
This city does not bother to bury small mammals.
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