Site Survey

I can imagine
the glossy eyes

and slobbery chin
of that yapping dog.

It will probably
out-live the old lady.

Nonetheless, it will
disappear, eventually.

When they haul the
lady's body to the morgue

the little dog will follow
like some vestigial organ.

The organs, those eyes,
like small land-locked

fishing holes, will become
a reminder of

forgotten places,
of material remains.

Human refuse.

Our ancestors will use
fragments of their bones

to weave convincing
fictions by the hearthside.