Body by the Side of the Road

by Edward J. Rielly

The body lay on the side of the road
just off the pavement, its stomach on gravel,
neck and head stretched out so that as
I approached, my car slowing when I reached
the top of the hill, it appeared to be lying
in wait, watching my ascent.

Not until I drew even with it was I sure
that the creature was dead, or what it was:
a raccoon, its dark hair unbloodied,
the body full and fluffed, as if it had lain
down for a nap, awakened at the sound
of a car engine, of tires churning.

I was tempted to stop, to move this raccoon,
as if it were a friend, at least an acquaintance,
to a more fitting spot, to a burial plot where
I could lay it to rest, a dignified repose.
Instead I moved on, watching through my
rearview mirror until the dark body had
shrunken to a dot, then disappeared.

The next day it was still there, and the next.
Each time I thought again of stopping,
of moving its body to a place more fitting
for a deceased raccoon — where tires would
not whizz by inches away, where humans
would not see its gradual disintegration —
to an end all things once living deserve.
Instead I drove past.  The fourth day it was gone.