I brought you flowers, big dead raccoon on the corner of 32nd and South Alaska Street. You have been there for about five days, and though the flies buzz about you, your coat is still handsome, and you don’t really smell of the death.
Who or what killed you? What was the last thing you saw? Your family must miss you, and may come across you at night, pause, and wonder, like I wonder, why you are still there. But I do not think you died here. You must have met your end elsewhere and were brought here. But by whom? The construction workers on the massive development across the street or the ones who partially demolished the house that your dead eyes kind of stare at? I remember this house very well. Mexican Americans once lived here, and on Friday nights they would play music, drink beer, and repair cars. Those people are gone and are never coming back.
