Obituary for the last journalist

A fiery anteater
unencumbered by hoary ethics,
sticking her nose into every hole,
shallow or deep, in an effort
to find sustenance –
to root out that which sustains.

And when those bumbling plumbings
yielded fruit, boy, did that yield
spill up and out and over and onto her
and everything
and everyone
around her.
Yet she never missed a beat,
went right on probing,
obvious violation that it was.

It was fresh meat
in tiny, coordinated forms
that drew her along
from one hole to the next,
and the next.
Emptiness she left in her wake;
an emptiness that remained
long after she moved on;
an emptiness that other creatures
stumbled into
and used for shelter.

She was a duty-fill anteater,
committed to find and extract.
Cursed to move on.

Obituary for the last journalist

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