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Foreign Policy
by Joel Ewy


My wife stopped the car
And walked back
To where the boys stood

Oh, what do you think
You are going to do?
What are we supposed to do?
There are cars going by all the time
What is she going to do
Out there by herself?
I got out

He was my favorite dog,
The boy sobbed
As I lifted its busted body up
From the middle of the road
In a lull between passing cars
All of them thinking
We had hit the pet

I'm sorry,
Was all I could think
To mumble
As I fumbled with a rock
To lift the trailing intestine
Into the motor oil box from our trunk
To lie with the rest of the dog,
Too squeamish to do it with my fingers