by Wayne Crawford
In the lower cabinet
near the oven, a bloated
mouse has expired in a trap.
I scrape particles of its
hind leg from the metal shelf.
A truck driver enters
the exit lane of Interstate10,
crashes into a van, kills
one, hospitalizes two others;
third time this month someone
has driven the wrong way.
Our country is at war again.
I wonder if the demand
for geraniums will slacken
their scent of funeral homes
already hanging in the air.
Wayne Crawford's poetry has appeared in many journals, Sin Fronteras, Las Cruces Writers and Poets, Language Arts, and Aethelon: Journal of Sports Literature, among them. He is the Editor of Lunarosity.