All Things Must Come to Pass

.
.
Owl Dead
.
The police chief
Was killed in a car wreck
Last summer
Now the house next door
Stands empty
Black windows
In white walls
Gape like sockets
In a skull
Awkward like toilets
In public stalls
The wife and children
Moved away
Sometimes best to run from pain
They left untended
The small garden below
My window on the third floor
Now dry tomato vines
Still tied to sturdy stakes
Brave the winter wind
Remnants of eggplants
Litter the weed filled bed
And once tied
To the telephone pole nearby
Was a plastic owl
A scarecrow of sorts
Put there to worry pigeons
And other vagabond varmint souls
But the owl now lies
On its back
In the untidy garden bed
The owl is dead