It does not surprise me,
or at least not much,
when early morning my car and I
drive past an extended string of dead possums,
clustered like roadkill gems on the inert center line.
Their lifeless mounds stream by and my eyes turn back to the road
and my thoughts gallop ahead as ever and I am
But what does surprise me, finally,
is a sudden, stretching reach of yearning:
a desire to know,
for the possums' sake --
or perhaps my own --
or at least, at last, for pity's sake --
whether they went all at once
or one by one.