The Scent

In the hills, the coyotes chatter
and wail like hysterical women

under the full moon, descending
in the predawn to snuffle

the house foundation and pad
the wet grass as they roam

for cats. I hear them circle
and pant, but what they smell,

what scent they’ve caught,
is the rotting carcass

of our marriage. They wait,
patient for opportunity,

while we conduct our business
and ignore the silent, leering corpse.


This poem originally appeared in Red River Review:
http://www.bobmccranie.com/A55656/RRR.nsf/b7b067882cdeb1b1862572f20026de56/50f708ffaf9eea7e862572f200268b07?OpenDocument&Click=