Leslie Neustadt

I feel my thin shell,
the fragile yoke inside,
as I trudge down Rosendale Road.
Its anorectic lanes leave
little room for ramblers.
Slender white lines weave
a foot or two from the
edge -- only inches
from hurtling SUVs.
Summer is on its last legs,
death around the corner.
A skunk lies
feet reaching to the sky.
No evidence of cataclysm
colors his body.
Nature’s rites have begun;
his life celebrated by flies.
No other mourners in sight.
The harsh chorus
of crows yet to arrive.
I have driven down this road
a thousand times,
but never felt the brute force,
never noticed the hidden
drive that only appears to those
who walk close to the earth.