The poem is a five-line picture of roadkill, built around one surprising comparison: a road is a table. Tables are where we eat, so the image quietly turns the dead animal into a meal. The "little worms" that "creep" across it are the diners, and what they feed on are "stale, gone things," meaning remains that have already lost their life and freshness.
The speaker never says what they feel, and that restraint is part of the effect. The tone is calm, almost matter-of-fact, as if the speaker is simply watching. Still, the word choices matter. "Creep" is slightly unsettling, and "stale" suggests something left out too long, like old bread. The poem also reverses how we normally think of a road, which is a place for fast, human travel. Here it becomes a place where slow, small creatures go about their business.
The mood is quiet, a little grim, and oddly accepting. Death is ordinary here, and something else is already using it.