Roadkill and Poetry
Mustache rides are free –
He still hasn’t thrown that T-shirt away?
Hummer H3 bumper-sticker expressly exclaims; I Eat My Own Roadkill
He pairs the crash site carcasses with broad beans and wine.
A cabernet in the colder months- fruitier cocktails in summer.
I heard he’s an accountant,
Or a private pilot for some reclusive trust funder.
No- He developed some kind of app, made him a multi-mega- minute superstar.
Does it really matter?
He reads the Bible.
Guts a deer while wearing his favorite lady’s cut black thong.
He took a course online- Now a preacher- He can marry his friends on the cheap.
He’s that Dad who never misses a dance recital.
That good old boy who never says no to another beer,
Or to changing the brake pads on any late model Ford truck.
His wife left him.
Married the divorce lawyer she hired when she caught him watching man-on-man-porn.
Too bad. He loved his wife, his children, his mistress
And her son in that not so fatherly way.
His last words before he shot himself,
“Hello Satan, table for one.”
©2021 P. C. Moraitis All rights reserved.
P. C. Moraitis is a columnist and poet born in Detroit, Michigan. She has written theater, operatic and symphonic reviews for The Troy-Summerset Gazette, The Monitor, The Northwest Detroiter and The Dearborn Times Herald. After all, life has its share of comedy and drama.
Long before Brad Pitt made it stylish, she has been eating peanut butter on a spoon.