Thursday, May 27, 2010

Myrtle Manuevers

Crisscrossing sparse streets,
I am a low-riding streak,
creeping shadow slides

Along jigsaw roads,
junkyard dogs hoard cans to hustle
in the morning's grey stretch,

burning away the sweaty
May stench sticking humid slides
down stinging vision,

the pulsing fission
in my pumping legs beg eager
for my silver door,

Rapidly approach
Dekalb, the sloping curve home,
yellow stone rest stop,

I earn the rest long postponed.

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