marked rat corpse,
lying half-squashed
in the pockmarked
asphalt of the alley's
left wheel rut:
yes, of course
I hope the rain comes
to flush you well away—
but still I can't
wish that you didn't
exist.
After all,
to whom else but you
is it safe to confess
all my worst
bents and most
hideous secrets?
The ways I've been
callous or raised
vindictive fists—
or worse, how I've been
in no rush
to make change?
I am not proud
of this, but what
can I say?
The slow road to hell
is long, but it's paved.
And at least
until now, I've had
the sense to get out
of faster traffic's way.
