it's as obvious
as if my car's tires
were always kept sponged

with white paint, and I
drove on only dry roads, and
you could see all the

tread marks from sudden
stops and tight corners, and all
parking and speeding,

all the slingshots of
passing, arcs between the lanes,
and my highway route

out past Canmore, my
hand'ling on the parkway, over
the cliffs to Golden,

and steady cruising
after the time zone divide,
that low wide valley;

you could learn to
read, from my treads, the
angle of clutch

and my gas pedal
pressure and my gear box grip,
and what hold you have

on me.






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