Day leaves for the coterie to break into night.
Each one more wretched than the last.
How could we have known? they ask themselves,
yet the answer is simple.
In front of them, a possum, his eyes blend into
a single iris in the center.
His claws stains with avacado,
once proud on a branch. Not quite ripe, still firm,
almost juicy, one might say.
The slaying leaves the coterie in shock.
Their fruit, taken. Eaten. Disposed.
Each prarie dog holds a jar of Spam,
expiration date: June 1984.
Is the year a metaphor? they wonder.
One bite, instant death.
The possum looks about,the dead dogs in front of him.
They were batshit insane, he says aloud.
Yes, possums can speak.
1/26/11(from tidbits of info thanks to Allysha, Anna V, Jon, and Tyler! I said I’d write about all people’s ideas on my status, and I got: spam (the food or the email issue), a cross eyed possum, prarie dog suicides, and the life of an avacado.)