Preservation

The rain hit the street with a hammer's weight,

so I ducked through the door and left it to fate.

In the corner, a bobcat sits on a shelf,

looking like something that gave up on itself.

One ear is balding, rubbed down to the wire

by fingers that needed a spark or a fire.

His glass eyes are frozen, a permanent stare,

catching the 'Open' sign's red, electric glare.

He’s been dead since the seventies, stiff and alone,

just a handful of sawdust and wire and bone,

waiting for someone to buy him a round

and put his old carcass back into the ground.