Roadkill

The tortoise and the hare, the brain and brawn, both splattered on the pavement. The race is always won by the swift. And the warning comes from the many other creatures, brutally nudged to the road’s shoulder. A lingering air of violence, I teeter that line between the rumble strips and the pit - between life and death. At the mercy of the wind that blesses our backs and scolds our sides, we sway in and out of line. More haste or steady pace. I slack behind my brother, the hare - thinking of my mangled body, maybe here or maybe there. Roadkill has always been one carwash away from atonement.