Road Kill

I become accustomed to death:
the flat black cat,
the globular mess that was possum;

the coonskin hat so smashed 
it's hard to remember
not too far back
the animal alive in my trash.

I'm quick to swerve.
For these deaths that I pass and observe
there is no compassion.
Nor is anyone offered rewards.
Even human life
receives but minimum regard.

It is my impression
that greed is the power that drives, 
speed the obsession
that obliterates the joy 
of our lives.