No union, in the oblique stares.

The mouths, agape.

No common touch.

In what means so little.

So much.

Poetic license without a qualified driver.

Careening down distances so far.

Scenic byways filled with the liquidation of potholes

and

artsy, abandoned, cars.

So what of these passing,

gazes and glares?

Of accommodating,

petrified poets.

As if the, purposefully, pretend, onlookers, were to say,

‘Do you not get it?’

However,

all these aimless journeys lead me to…

one thought.

Surprising what some sustainable souls can do?

Hiking paths…

Where tires tread cannot be cast.

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