The dead raccoon

The dead raccoon

I’ve been talking to the crows.
They don’t really listen.
They just cock their heads and give me the eye –
And then they begin to caw,
All of them right over my head as if…
As if I have nothing important to say.
I tell them about the dead raccoon
I discovered on our walkway this morning.
I steel myself as I go get the shovel from the garage
and begin to try to shove it up under the raccoon.
The raccoon is stiff and falls from the shovel.
I talk to the crows telling them about
the hard time I am having.
They continue to walk about the yard –
ignoring me.
Give me a break, I mutter.
Please. Somebody, give me a break.
Nobody listens as I carry it across the yard
as it falls from the shovel – several times.
At one point I begin to whimper,
Pleasepleasepleaseplease.
I don’t know why this dead raccoon
has upset me so badly.
My husband at work told me to grab
a shovel and throw it in the woods.
My best friend called me from Tennessee
and told me to grab a shovel
and throw it in the woods.
The crows follow behind me
or skip in front of me on the way to the woods.
I finally reach the woods and
dump the raccoon onto the ground.
I turn but then….
Visions of those murdered children
pop into my head.
I begin to dig.
As I dig, I talk to my friend
the Old Oak.
He is silent.
I begin to dig.
Why me? I whimper.
Why those kids? I weep.
Nobody listens.
Nobody cares.
I tamp the earth down over the raccoon
and place several rocks
on the grave.
The crows fly away
still ignoring me.

For Kerry’s Prompt at Real Toads – a one-sided conversation, written for a silent and even disinterested audience, because poetry is an aspect of individual creativity that goes beyond literary appreciation or criticism.

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