It's killing me, this molasses, driven to carefully,
saving points on accidents, or none to make like we never drive reckless bumpers, a morass of paintaking consideration for ones neighbor - and who is that but lights made like the sun. Baking now, we wait for a dawn that never appears in seconds, counting as walking is so efficient an exercise in breathing, freely we see them making progress over coffee - hear, steaming, ready to be spilled on careless speedy engines. It's noon already, the sun, the moon, even the stars voice their concern with what takes place when intersections collide, and smart maniacs make their way through awnings for cows, smart though as drivers study, and manicure their cud. What's in a construction, working all day to wear bright and appropriate, glaring all the same - the necessary anarchy of closing trails and segways for motocross and adventures to dream, to stay, to wait and parlay the dirty window. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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