A Project for Better Journalism chapter
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Gas Station After a Long Drive

The last place I felt warm

was two towns ago.

I found a remnant of my

babyhood in the asphalt,

buried too shallow

for long-enough nails.


I asked the sun for a ride home,

requesting we skip over Route 77

and instead take the back roads.

I want to melt slowly,

until I can count each particle

that once came together

to form my rainboots.


I want to tell someone how

cloud-cover makes it difficult

to hear across empty streets.


Here wandering around a parking lot

made me remember that my backyard

was at one time my kingdom,

just minus the king.

I used to play with imaginary friends

and the sunsets came too slowly.