Wing still open like it had one more thing to say

Wing still open like it had one more thing to say.

Eye dull. Finished.

A woman in heels stepped over it

without a pause, without looking down,

the way you step over a crack

or a puddle or anything

that someone else's accident made.

I stood there.

I don't know why I stood there.

It was already dead.

The standing wasn't helping anything.

But I couldn't just step over it

the way she had, like it was nothing,

like death was just another obstacle

in the pattern of getting somewhere.

So I stood there like an idiot

until another person came

and stepped over it too,

and then I moved.

It's still there probably.

Still on the sidewalk.

Still nobody's problem but the sidewalk's.