that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
–William Stafford, “Traveling Through the Dark”
 
He doesn’t mind filling chuckholes,
painting lines, plowing snow,
but hates mornings when he clocks in,
sees “Road Kill” next to his name.
The first starts with a raccoon,
bloated and sweet on the yellow line
of Route 162.  We usually leave small game,
the foreman explains, grabbing
the body by its ringed tail,
but we hear this one had rabies. 
He tosses the coon in the truck bed.
Next one’s yours, he says
over the thunk of meat on metal.
Donny’s mouth fills with spit
and the morning’s coffee.
Down the road, a deer waits.
She is fat and fresh. Donny looks
to the tree line. Vultures.
The air is heavy with wild violet.
There is no blood. The doe
watches him approach, neck broken,
head cocked in hindsight.