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Road Trip

Stretched out on the roadside, it's relaxing.

The car about 20 feet away. We could

be victims or snipers. Laying there perhaps

after the event or before it, possibly

an effect or possibly the cause.

You roll over onto your back and

let your head roll to the side so

your eyes fall into mine and

your hair falls over your face and

a car drives past, going down the road.

Your fingers tap the stereo when we're driving

and songs skip like stones over the water.

I've got the window cracked to ash my cigarette

and the wind is blowing your hair over your face

and you don't mind.

Eventually we take to leaving monuments,

small tokens, at the spots where we stop

on the roadside to stretch out and relax.

Once a pop can with a smiling face punctured in its side

by your penknife. Once a receipt from last night's motel

folded into a shape, improv origami. Things

like that anyway. Because it feels like that

with you. Like a fairy tale, like one

of those modern fairy tales.