I own the crossroads,

the place of left and right,

the straight and narrow,

high crested curved roads

and paths under rock gray

clouds in valleys

shared by yesterdays moon

and breezes quick and cool

with dust from boots

traveling in circles

and riding to lonely places

and diners filled with

searching and suspicions

and napkins with names

and wrong numbers

and a clock with one hand

over a door leading to

rainy steps and car lights

flashing at corners

where lipstick

and cigarettes point fingers

to the crossroads

of my life.


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