[An attempt at an “innovative” sonnet]
Truck stop crow stands mute, witness to sacred
succulence, the worm-eaten. Sturdy god
of greasy compost advance, to slipshod
foraging, lurking as forsaken vagrant.
Silly black vagrant outshining the moon-
brilliant oil slicks, neoned ruse of plenty.
Sentinel of wrecked weasles and many
smashed souls, empty beak pecking at a spoon
reflecting sky, sundown, the pulpy sheen
of feathers. Corvid companion decrees
all is not lost at the Stinker Station—
land of midnight chrome, temple to obscene,
consolation in fireworks of debris.
And each redemptive morsel, unforeseen.