Not like those early miles -
trenched in diver's boots
fatty lead, aproned
in a self made marinade
sweat red, white wine vinegar - eau de la rue
every which way, young road to exertion,
calling out, flattened mouths
of the road kills, heads hinged, open books
- not like those early miles,
now almost like laying back in
a panting armchair, almost.
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