We hit something
she said “a raccoon?”
I said, “opossum.”
I said, “turn around,
let’s turn around.”
and there it was lying in the street
a silhouette of sharp snout and feet
orange on grey on black, the colors fade.
A cat, we hit a cat.
So this is death, bulging, leaking red eyes
protruding from its crushed and swollen head.
so this is death.
I’ve been punished
now to forever drive
and hold a breathe
at every shadow
across the road.
Enoch Thompson is an aspiring poet and storyteller. A grave robber, a pirate, a wizard, an ugly shambling skeleton, he trudges the paths eighteen million other better men have skipped down. Always, as new words become published and new voices shout to be heard, his anxieties grow. He is a modern-day writer and encapsulates all of the insecurities society has placed on the cliched profession.
To see more poetry on WIZ by Enoch, click here.