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April 16, 2007
It Figures #33

Flat Out
Limps along the freeway shoulder,
His once sleek
And perfect circle now
Crushed and lop-sided.

It taunts him as he goes
“Lop, Lop, Lop.”

He is no longer moving
At the speed of thought
The world a blur of color,
A rush of wind.

The highway, the shoulder,
The world
Has a new and sort of interesting
Detail to it.

There are bits of glass
And rusted bottle caps
Mixed with the stones.

Cracks run everywhere on the pavement
And the trees along the road
Are bare along the bottom.

He can see
In there.