At an exit off I-75, a coyote rots on the ramp,
green, not with fierce fire, but with fungus, mold
embalming its bloated body, its once black hair.
Its face looks up from itself, a monster
petrified on concrete, teeth still bared.
Above this flesh a sign says Tourist Info,
arrow points west, past the Wendy’s.
What more information would they need
to tell them they are not here, but anywhere?