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 (Flash Nonfiction, January 1972)
Up the ramp, the radio’s on, we view round for lights and the lights remain and let us in.
Look at us, driving the Interstate, driving the flat curve of the earth.
Look at us, leaving the city, heading west through the state, into the Horse-Trader’s dialect.
Look over us, mamamotormobile, for we’re going home with high beams on in the frozen hare’s eyes.
We’re going home with the tire wheel grazing low, the steering wheel grazing lower and tickling our tired waists.
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