Buddy

I cradle you in the wool 

layer I’ve just shed 

from my body,

which I’ll later wash 

of blood.

I lay you atop the grass

on the side 

of the road you’ll cross

no more.

I pet 

your head, caress your fur, 

as if touch 

could reanimate your tail.

When fur is matted red, 

eyes wide yet dull, 

tongue limp in a snout from which barks will come

no more, what is there to do

but curse at the driver?

What to conclude except there’s no one at the Wheel?

At least there was no yelp.

At least the driver pulled over.

To be fair, 

the sun was wide and blinding, 

and the carriage

of the vehicle high, and your body small, 

your paws quick.

Your death, too— 

At least I like to think,

as I like to think 

you have a soul, as I like to think

there is a god.

As hard as I look,

I never see Him, though, just like the driver

couldn’t see you.

Forgive him, poor creature.

Damn you and your car, Jonathan.