Death En Masse

The black tarp writhed in the wind wildly
on the trailer bed of the roaring semi
and the Monday morning sun shone but mildly
through the wet veil of Summer, as a dim eye.

Rain fell heavy, glumly glistening
upon the interstate’s black-purple lanes
and a family cruised behind, kids listening
to the droplets patter upon the panes.

The tarp billowed in a Westerly wind
as if a creature incensed at the biting chain,
and as it bucked and thrashed, end to end to end,
the slick straps loosened in the silver rain.

The straps all snapped at a single blow
and the tarp flapped upwards, flying free at last
and rising like a black carrion crow
whose wings cloaked the logging poles it now cast.

The minivan dodged the first tumbling pole,
but it could not dodge the other Jenga jumble,
and the family hydroplaned into a roll—
a football flipping in a frenzied fumble.

The tarp flew away, an ambushing phantasm
whose early morning harvest was now done,
and the vein hemorrhaged with the spasm
as cars crashed together beneath a dim sun.

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