The splatter-pattern is festooned with bells.
Officer Cromwell picks one from the gore
and pops it into his mouth like a plump berry.
He rolls it around his cheeks, a slow contemplation,
then spits it back out, gleaming.
All four lanes are closed.
This annoys Cromwell.
He scowls at westbound rubberneckers,
decelerating to watch as a forensic team
peel a motley hat from a big rig fender,
drop it into a transparent bag,
taking photographs,
quipping under the moustaches.
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