at death, who is helpless?

hand in pocket,

hand on hip.

hands folded into our arms,

hands over our mouths; the

truck is now parked as we stare at

the black fur lying as still and cold as the

black top under our feet.  we stand in

the moonish luminescence of the

streetlight towering above us—the thing which

watched the whole thing happen.

dark, coagulating blood

pouring forth from mouth, head

arched backwards to look with empty eyes, four paws

sprawled outwards as during sleep, tail

curving upwards, waiting for one last

sweep of play.

who is helpless?

at guilt, at regret,

at one thousand unanswered questions:

at death, who is helpless?

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