Boiled Coffee And Canned Meat

Editor back-issues, poetry

I drive a carof irreplaceable partsgoing south.I crawl out of town at night,a girl with a limp on my arm,not knowing which beltor hose is cracked,leaking like a fistfulof fluids. The headlights reach downwhere the pavementis supposed to be.I have a feel for the tiresas they pitchinto the shoulder.Then slowly guide them out and awayfrom the deeper ditch below,hot with toxic…

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