Ann-Marie Spittle


He lay there crumpled like an old tin can
Flattened by the passage of a metal man
That had not seen the insignificant
Too small, too unimportant, unreverberant
Now just a carcass bereft of venom
At this injustice of a woman’s phenom
No Good Samaritan walks past
Only women and children cast
Prying eyes with excessive vision
And prod with sticks that cast derision
As he lies abandoned through wind and rain
Through darkness, light, and forgotten pain
Slowly engulfed by the power of nature
Until bearing fruit by his denature
He becomes enduringly angelic
As a florally enveloped relic