Elegy for Resident Alien

Grey wad of disjointed something

Barreling toward my face.

Driving on 55 at near seventy.

At point of contact

A sickening Thwap.

Not enough mass for a Thump,

Though the volume of orange pulp

Which issued from your mouth

At point of contact

Indicated otherwise. Perhaps.

I’m sorry, little starling,

For what I did to you.

You are nonnative to these parts.

We didn’t know each other anyway.

I’ll wash my car and move on.