Dead quiet

By Joel Lazar
Road by Pixabay

Hotham street was dead

quiet at 12:16am.

 

The possum lay

spread-eagled

cry emblazoned

on a broken face

its kidneys heaped

in a ditch

its life-pink vibrant

 

in the darkness

on the tar

 

half its intestine

still inside

a great escape

the cops closing

it was all over

there was nowhere to hide

 

who do the possums call

when Mum doesn’t show

who’s in charge of the worrying

who waits with the young one

while another

gets behind the wheel

to confront the night

who gets informed

who confronts the press

with times, streets and approximations

when does the incoherent ranting begin

when does it stop

is there closure

and how do things open up again

will a memorial arise

what will it be made of

who will visit it and how often

will any stories be told

will they focus on the good

or the bad

how long will it take til the memory

becomes a black hole

swallowing itself

and impenetrable

 

Hotham street was dead

quiet at 12:16am.

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