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Image for post
Photo by A. L. on Unsplash

Days of breath, only visible in the sun,
leave a thin fog to tattoo halos on headlights.

Wrappers between empty seats cradle
remnant crumbs by the belt. In and out,

clicked a hundred times like a patron
counter at the fair gate. Each station passes —

we keep driving down these roads
longer than all of us remember.

Written by

Husband. Father of four. Cyclist. Musician. Poet. Sci-fi enthusiast. Writes from Boston, MA.

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