Another Old, Familiar Story

“The strong survive, and all of that,”
he’d tell the limply dangling cloth
between his beak, a former moth,
but doesn’t sense the lunging cat,

who doesn’t think the wheels that run
consider cats their proper prey.
Yet, now he’s just a dead display
beneath the slowly dying sun.

Who knows if later down the road
that truck won’t strike a rotting tree
and bring to bear on top of me
its paralyzing wooden load?

Though like a reel of comic scenes,
it's also how our stories go:
the endings are the same, we know,
but brought about by varied means.

Paul Burgess
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Paul Burgess would like to hear them.