Dead Opossums of Mosel Avenue

Coasting this road I found more than I wished.
Potholed cavities.
A frustrated man in a beautiful suit.
Marsupials not made of iron
gored over stopped gaps of bad traffic.
Here the cup of once-good gulps has dried,
its lip pouring chorals spilled from a heavenly surplus.

I buried a box of hard drives.
I slurped a noodle of doom.
I am out of a warm bed and into a cold room.

At the window’s external, giddy hoards upend their glee to the gray wreck of stale city trash under sun.
Then how a time of perfect union presented to me, and I learned an eagerness to stroke its depth without restriction and the cool wash of trusting
one’s course as it binds to the thrust of acknowledged want.

You are light in the pool of profound revelation.
You reach to scratch a skin beyond the bounds of touch.
It becomes more than urgent to depart; to just leave, cut swift and certain, clean and sure and the whole go through.

I spit onyx wads in the swampy urinal.
Crud soaks a slum puppy coat
while watchers pick latched ticks from the pits of their purpled rectums. Barracudas somewhere fan the weedy shallows
and squids ink the deep in immediate shielding.

Beneath a Moose Moon I eye the morphing calendar.
I have witnessed love, breath, luck, and obstructions.
I have honored the clouds of sorrow and pity.
In the dip of Mosel Avenue
I am halted for neon vests and orange-coned lanes of construction.
It was here where once I knew contentment.
Here where I eyed the coming stress of imminent obliteration.
Among the hurt and elsewhere,
my principal feeling
was one
of becoming.