In the right lane of northbound Interstate 95 there's a dead dog.
At least I think it was a dog;
Poor thing was so mangled it was hard to tell.
And blood was spattered, five, ten, fifteen feet away,
The deathly grey-red that only blood on concrete can be.
And there's tightness in my stomach, and tears in my eye.
I come home and on the TV there's a dead man.
At least I think it was a man;
Poor thing was so mangled it was hard to tell;
And I don't know if he was a victim of a drive-by, or a Serbian mortar
round,
Or an Israeli killed by Palestinians, or a Palestinian killed by Israelis...
But blood was splattered five, ten, fifteen feet away,
The deathly grey-red that only blood on concrete can be.
No tightness in my stomach, no tears in my eye
Because this is a sight that no longer bothers me.
This is a sight that has become too familiar for that.
This is a sight so familiar it has become a normal part of my world,
And to see it again, I find to my horror,
Is almost reassuring.