Dead Leaves

A headless bike carcass, stripped of wheels and chain
is still locked to the rack outside my work.
It seems morbid to park mine by its side —
Not ready for the glue factory yet, not by a stretch —
But the spot is always open.

Every day I walk towards the side door
The one they bolted shut three months ago.
Every day I turn back a little sooner.

There are bodies strewn on the ground
And I cannot move them
So I work them into the dirt.  What would you have me do?
A stench rises, but it is only autumn leaves.

My teeth sure aren’t getting any straighter,
No matter how often I sleep in that old retainer.
They say men get more handsome with age —
Just another way to leave a trail of bodies.  I’ve had enough.

This dirt is plenty fertile.
I might start an herb garden in the Spring.

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