|||
Some kids from down my street killed a dog
and left it by the drain concrete escarpment,
a humble temple for those vestal gronks.
Ants, in their agmen, trickled from it and held
to the sun their own venerations.
The rest of the day didn’t seem to notice.
I wondered if the boys kneeled, solemn as priests,
and saw their futures in the offal:
Sullen wives, a scolded child,
Banquo’s angry sons stretching on forever.
I continued on my walk,
And in leaf repose I saw a footprint, ochre-red,
a Nike Tuned blood and dust mandala.
The darker edges linger.
