I could have driven by you
like I’d done for the past two days,
your sunken eyes and fur matted

with blood, rotting on the August asphalt,
but I didn’t, stopping instead
to move you.
I grabbed a bag
from my backseat and used it to pick you
up by your hind legs.

By the curb I dropped you
into a shallow grave, balled up the brown paper
and threw it next to you in the dirt;

a temporary tombstone I stood
looking at in the rain as it ran from my face
onto your strong body

tattooed with the road.
I wondered
if you saw the car coming

as I got back in mine,
or if you just jerked under the tires
in an attempt to turn around.