unfortunate sparrow
decomposing on the sidewalk
i pass you every morning
and wonder what your story is.
your life was short and uncelebrated
no one held a funeral for you
you lie among the leaves and dirt
in the gutter
your guts pecked out by crows
and picked over by worms
just a squashed mass of matted feathers
unrecognizable
you've been there for weeks
and no one has buried you
what's it like being gawked at?
your corpse on display?
what's it like to decompose on the street
and eventually be washed down the drain?
the consolation of the dead is
to fertilize the ground,
being useful one last time
but not you.
was your life worthwhile?
how did it end?
what did you accomplish?
would you do it all again?