He ended up using it for soup…

Roadkill

A man left over from 70’s punk,
cutoff jeans and old leather jacket
With skull scraped free of pelt ,
joined me where I stood, bent

over the kit. A life suspended,
caught in amberlike time.
The puppyish fox with spattered
brains appealed to me;

its large, soft paws
and feathery tail,
the milky smell of it,
made something clench.

This infant psychopomp
lolled its loose head against
my leathered toe. I shifted its body
from tarmac to grass;

it needed that much consideration.
The old man took it further.
His fingers glittered between
the studs on his gloves,

he scooped it by the white-ended
brush. ‘I let nothing waste.’
The corpse vanished into a hidden
pocket. There is no wasted flesh.

Not on this road.