A paltry morning, bare of leaf,
grey as a goose.
Hours puddle
between the shallow bones
of a decaying season.
Just enough gas to get me there
The nozzle gulps
as if it were drinking
not pumping.
I ponder on the fact
that all gas stations in Ohio
are built inside a wind-tunnel.
The boxed donuts
are an impulsive afterthought.
I scold myself…
am I that that grey
that I must...
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