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?