You Don’t Call It Roadkill

I learned to circulate car air on rural Georgia backroads or dead raccoon like shaved rubber and raw sausage will heat the AC. I call it weed or skunk. You call it something you can’t remember. You’re not in a hurry to. I imagine you’d call it half dead fish on pier boards, smacking it to sleep. Or lazy stinking creek. Or maybe bird feathers, high and gray and triumphant. Maybe you’d call it younger wonder years, splayed out on …

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