One of my headlights is out.
The road clears its own throat:
The radio once I get to a certain point on 30 is
Satanic gospel.
But when I come down the mountain the
Sun is there to shine on a world superstitious of loss.
They bake their fallen leaves.
They reimagine the dead in uniform.
There’s a Gulf station in Art Deco
In need of an army.
There’s a duck no one ever saw before but me;
But everyone sticks up for him.
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