Crows work with such precision,
the quarter-sized hole in the rabbit’s side
the only evidence that they’d been there.
I pick up the rabbit which is nothing now
but skin and bones, its insides
having been removed and eaten.
I work with less precision than the crows,
dropping the rabbit before getting it
in the plastic bag, then missing the trashcan
with my first toss and finally just dropping it in.

Descriptive and filled with emotion. I understand hopelessness and futility reading this poem. Effective!!!