You could hear the flesh slap against the front
Wheels
As the car ran him over,
It wasn’t the death strike -
That must’ve happened hours before - but
Damn,
He’d been got good
As they say.
There were 4 or 5 solid pieces of torso,
Orange fur covered steaks.
Like someone had taken the cleaver to him
And lay him out like that to tenderise the meat.
It was as grotesque a thing as I’d seen all year,
Up close anyway,
But still I didn’t care.
It was probably him shitting in my garden,
His babies mewing and screeching into the small
Hours.
I didn’t care that he was dead,
Or how it happened.
Or that his remains were being desecrated by
Each passing bus or
Truck or
Motorcycle.
I saw a pigeon a little later on that morning,
Flattened on the tarmac and guts out,
Dirty grey feathers blowing across the streets of Soho,
It was nowhere
Near
As impressive.