by Carmen Mason

I walk each day
across the bridge
wondering if we really
need a god or
are we enough ~

still, xx there’s the splayed raccoon
hit a few nights ago
its snout intact
half gritting xxxhalf grinning

The next day it’s flipped over ~
perhaps a dog or fisherman’s son flipped it
belly up xxxjumping with flies
and I want
to call you and get
you to come see it :
six grey teeth in a
grimacing mouth
belly oozing a million
undulating white worms
up and down
up and down
as if on infinitesimal
conveyor belts
striped fur gone XXface gone
nails scattered XXpawless
a fringe of paper-thin carcass
marking its small life
Oh let’s lift the baby up
And kiss its berry lips
and later dance with her
under the stars
to tangos and merengues
listen to the scat singer
syncopating the night air in
the snapping jazz club
give all our change
to the impatient waiter
let’s dance ’til the last dervish
lookxxxx look xxxlook!
xxxxxthe sun’s
xxxxxxxxdipping down

Carmen Mason has written poetry and prose since she was six. She first got published in P.S. 106‘s Children’s Press. She has kept going, winning a few prizes along the way, but mainly just enjoying sharing and, while waiting for her muse to (hopefully) visit her again, telling her friends jokes by Steven Wright.