these blank pages are running out,
and i’m a little less than
worried. for more
dollars than exist to spare,
new tires are put on a car
that refuses to die when all hope
in its mechanical ability
was lost eight-hundred miles
ago, black cylindrical rubber
tread, now and again and for
one-more-maybe-last time able to pass
the penny test, refusing
in apparent weighty and eager
stubbornness to reveal president
lincoln’s copper hair line -
walk into a coffee
shop to escape this present
fortune with pen and pad,
the full coffee aroma engulfing,
blasting the face
though routinely passed by
like road side foliage
from here to there,
x-hundred miles
to step out stiff
with clumsy feet and back seat
full of loud and shiny food wrappers –
recognizing a high school teacher
and a chalky crush
in a dusty green chair
with the same nose and hair,
and a new divorce, and think
she remembers me too,
and wonder if she’s impressed
with me now, carrying
books, wearing beard, bearing
fleeting blank pages, perhaps
intrigued to see me on two
newer wheels instead
of four older ones, and this page
in this tiny backpack hauling
tiny words about tiny
things the rest of the world
is too big to see. these blank
ages are running
out, and i’m a little more
than worried about everything
else swallowing the birds
and trees and things
preserved and things heaved
in dumps and holes and
burned in mesmerizing flames
where even the rising smoke swells
in these skies as i
unravel down
miles
and miles.
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