The body of a camp chair is
Smeared across the highway,
Metal skeleton detached from
Canvas skin. A hundred fast food
Soda cups are scattered, victims
Of a hundred hit-and-runs (or
Maybe just McDonald’s runs).
A child’s stuffed toy is ground
Into the pavement, fake fur
Matted with oil, dirt, grime, the
Blood of every piece of city roadkill
Soaked into its cotton core.
It stares with one remaining eye,
Mangled and forgotten.
by MALLORY HOBSON