It lay by the road side, a lump of fur,
no longer what you would call flesh and blood;
meat, bone, sinew indeed, never to stir
from its broken stillness. All life was lost,
it was waste, to be thrown away unfit
for a decent burial. It would smell
foul soon and movement would return, wriggling.
Another casualty of fast lives?
Or a cull, a sacrifice to ward off
the feared spirit of tuberculosis
cast aside in the furtive hours from guilt?
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