Crouching fogbank, 
Opossum sprawl, fresh asphalt stain
Morning glimpse
Of sun’s first casualty.
Mist sleeps
On the old horizon.
Cars slide by
Like phantoms, motorized
For silence.
A vision, 
Like marsupial madness
Attacks my frontal lobe.
Why do I even care? 
Driving to college, 
What do I resemble? 
An old, grey opossum, 
Who will play dead quite well today.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    