Disembodied off I-76 behind the Comfort Inn

Riddled with plastic water bottles,
unnaturally green in shallow pockets
I refuse to consider— the shore
of the drab pond where we used to
share submarine sandwiches,
smiling, exhausted and love sore.

Cottonwood canopy shadows
rippled like the pond over sand
that also rippled like the pond
as though earth were water.
An optical illusion—solid ground
becoming fluid—I could have watched
for hours, but time was not mine today.

I stood to leave before I noticed the thing,
its brightness swallowed by those shadows.
All that was left of the crawdad
was a perfect red claw,
and it seemed that might be all
that was also left of me, walking away.

2012