Futility

It was a newspaper
crumpled up like road kill,
 
in the shape of a cat,
to the curb of my midnight stroll
 
Its exposed contents was feral
like the meditations of my own heart;
 
staining the sidewalk black
to match the municipal undercurrent
 
And why shouldn't we grieve the same

for the dead tree
and its mystical union
with dead words?
 
Or perhaps we should let them bury each other
 
Like the larvae and the feline carcass no one ever loved