Garbage juice

The streets are strangely quiet.
The cars of course are there.
The garbage can remains,
now empty
on the street.
A marker.
It reminds me of where the body lay.
No one wants to move it.
It touched death.
I watched the blood pour on to the street,
like garbage juice.
A body like garbage lay on the curb.
Like garbage.

by Kathleen Moll

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