Ode to the Marxists

This morning, the sun came up
on the wrong side of the street.
It meshed with the moans
of a dozen couples
tired of the fast advances.
It really makes a person
mad you know,
to drive and return and drive again
over the lonely bodies of skunks.
No one gives a damn anymore.
The dried grass in the corner
gets longer like the fingernails
of the dead. The wild hogs
are in a hurry this year.
He's lost his keys again,
he's a bit lonely, on the edge.