A mangled body lies fifteen feet
from a two car collision,
one leaking gasoline,
caught in a liminal position
before fire’s ignition,
the other leaking booze
from the lips of a loose
man luckily living
a life lost with another,
seven years the least of his worries
after mirrors shattered at impact.
Bruised, bloodied, and battered,
none of it seems to matter
for the breathless black-ashed
bag of bones
in a better place
with or without a heavenly body.
A gnarled mask of plastic peace
tells its own story
two feet further from the scene;
it isn’t Halloween.
John Doe didn’t seem to fit the description.