From point A to point B

Buses are favorite uncles,

out of date tweed, torn pocket protectors,

faint smell of disinfectant.

Trains are not real.

Subways are born to be porn stars,

yellow moans, pressed flesh,

bad stories that shouldn’t see light of day.

Airplanes are whimsical curses to God.

My feet are medieval,

errant, lost to fairies,

turning at a glimpse of enlightenment.

Let’s take the car.


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