Something
Something
by Red Tuna
is dead in a bag, underneath the overpass.
We know this from the shape
the smell
this is even the right place to put a dead thing
among the stagnant rain, the floating trash
toxic gravel.
We see it everyday. We talk about it with our friends, but
The bag is untouchable.
It lays for weeks.
And one day, as we pass through on our way to the movie theater,
we see it is torn open with clothes coming out.
Just clothes.
But what is this place? That smell?
And that breath down your neck sensation that
there’s still
something.
Creepy. Could be just from the reinforced group imagination (“we know this”) or from the collective smell of the place: a dead, trashy area. I like “that breath down your neck sensation.”