Poor Thing

How long have you been there,
sleeping in nothing but your fur and skin?
You are flat and mummified and
I am taking a breather here on this bench,
the yellow ball pinging and ponging on the clay.

You are beyond the breather, little rabbit,
you are the cigarette box
smashed to a rainy pulp on the road
and then photographed
for a coffee table book on artistic garbage.