Leftovers

Not that the ambulance men look like white vultures, but
I can see them stooping over the roadkill that
they peck at with needles and monitor leads,
not that it'll do any good because
I can see its eyes bleed every time
they pump what's left of its ribcage,
not from hope but procedure.
I wave through the black van;
they lift it on, shrug,
"Not much left there,
I'm afraid."
They cried
not.