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.