SO MANY THINGS
I HAVE DUCKED
I cannot duck this. The bridge
is too high, or I am too low, or the
other way around, as it would go.
A truckload of beef carcasses is
passing, refrigerated, a food truck
that swallows its pride. Once, it would
have been a cattle-truck of braying
steers, or - as I saw on I-95 a few
times through Georgia and the Carolinas -
giant trucks filled with live pigs, inside
metal-grid walls to let air in but protect
them from traffic. On their way to some
slaughterhouse where men and women
wear plastic gloves for protection.
Like condoms for the hands, but
nothing to protect live death. The
animals all will surely die. But
what's to say, and who am I?