Roadkill Carpet

It lies dead on the shoulder
of the highway, its grey twill backside
dirty and bunched at one end, the
rumpled hindquarters sprawled out
beneath it, torn gabardine and chino
everywhere, the tack board still
miraculously attached.

In two decades, there will be no trees
but the trees made by men.
We will peer at them, proud against
the mountains, hills, and streams,
waterfalls and fields of tussock.
All man-made.

Today, a soiled rug replaces
the deer carcass.

Tomorrow, something else
will be traded--
the buzzards, perhaps--
who hover and spin like helicopters,
but have no taste for the
artificial dead.

K. Thomas Elzy © 2006.

My Old Pekinese

He stands at the back door, one-eyed,
perplexed at the speck of sunlight
reflected there against the linoleum,
which had just a few hours ago
been vast.
In college, I remember reading an article
about basic language, of which,
the author claimed,
even the most sophisticated beasts are
incapable. Watching my dog whimper
in frustration at what, to him, must
be the shrinking of the sun,
I cannot help but differ.
He is an old dog now, stubborn of his
years, accustomed to feeling the slow
shrivel of the future. And I believe
he has, in his twilight, taken to looking
at the world beyond the window, and asking,
why?

K. Thomas Elzy © 2006.

Weights and Measures

cold street lights zipping by
like distant stars
is all I remember from
that night

the night we didn’t say goodbye

you already had
three nights before,
under your bed sheets, waiting
for sleep

but it took me years

you said
happiness comes in small doses
which is all you ever came to expect
from anyone

I used to know the ticking
of your brain by heart,
your cat-like elegance and
your poise--
I could measure your passion
in a cup,
day-to-day
little by little...

it’s ironic
that I remember you now in small doses
flashes really
though not always in happiness--

like the flicker of cold streets lights
zipping by

just slow enough to notice
too fast to make any sense

K. Thomas Elzy © 2006.

Before the L

The man's dry fingers clench her
sunshine yellow parka, white-knuckled,
on a crowded subway platform.
She is young. All around them, travelers
hug their coats and shuffle like specters:
ashen, alone.

In northern Alaska, lichens grow under rocks
to escape the winter. The landscape dries up
and freezes, and for thirty days, the sun falls
below the earth.

Between her feet, a suitcase waits: its vinyl
flesh furled, locks broken. Beneath the stones,
the lichens begin to starve.

She is a departing star, a life-giver.
He wants to endure but is afraid,
clutching the sun with desperate hands.
Tomorrow it will rise, he says.
Tomorrow is all he knows.

K. Thomas Elzy © 2006.