Crouching fogbank,
Opossum sprawl, fresh asphalt stain
Morning glimpse
Of sun’s first casualty.
Mist sleeps
On the old horizon.
Cars slide by
Like phantoms, motorized
For silence.
A vision,
Like marsupial madness
Attacks my frontal lobe.
Why do I even care?
Driving to college,
What do I resemble?
An old, grey opossum,
Who will play dead quite well today.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem