Little-green-jacket

 
Cars are dangerous in the night
as is the soil in its wanton Sun.

A reflective-jacket lays awkward;
it isn't uncomfortable, or comfortable.

Nonreflective.

Resting on a small road, without
pavement or light.

Little green jacket, you have failed.
Is that a father? A husband?
That you hold and cannot console?

His mourners
have tear-ducts, primarily for emotion
but the scurrying ants, searching the anonymous
are stepping on their dead who lay
on the dead.

Where is our octopus-devotion?
Giving everything for the survival
of our fragile, brittle offspring.

We're all here to fuck-and-die,
watch the fuck-product die then fuck the undead
but breathing got too easy
and stopping too hard.

Tears for the man at the side of the road
whose man-made jacket failed him
and as the tears crisp and dust to earth
the soil will slowly chew him
as it will, every, single one of you.