Folly of Roadkill and Time
Hayden Smith

Never said that it would slow.
The clock or the Chevy,
both will hold steady,
and end persists in engines and watches.

Rhombic gratitude lays senile on concrete.
First among the last,
go anywhere but here.
Splintering fencepost, dread on my sharpest whim.

Tepid scenes,
shallow replies,
open ocean,
fate demised.

On concrete paths,
I stay awake,
but fuel retorts,
my autumn shake.

Wishing to dance on battered raccoons.
Autumn blast,
gravel sighs,
one part kept for sectarian divide.

In clinging enamored,
follow the cannon.
Secretive folly,
the sun at night.

Sudden gaze set on darkest days.
3 o’clock metempsychosis.
Not me, I suppose.