Friday, November 17, 2006 Morning

This painting is called "Autumn," and below is the poem "Not Looking."

Not Looking

I found her
In the deepest night,
crossing Eleventh,
and a slight, warm breeze—
a car had hit her.
The breeze had done it.
Mangled. With chunks of fur missing.
Only, she was me.
And she was bleeding profusely.
She tried to speak words
but could merely say, Me!
and Yeeow!
My fur was shades of gray
in stripes, just like in life.
And I held her.
I was so sad for her,
there, bleeding.
My front leg hung,
bent beyond the joint at my shoulder.
I was giving in.
My tail in tatters.
I didn't see the car as it rounded
the corner.
Distracted by a fluttering,
I never saw what hit me.