'Acura'
Here's to the man in the grey Acura who pulled up beside me at an intersection
His salt and peppered silver curls, greased to their tips
He pulled long and frantic on that cigarette
As though it were the baby-bottle of God
Full of warm milk and the promise of freedom from pain
His face was weather-worn, from what I assumed to be a thousand years of worry
Windows completely down in weather hovering near zero
He never noticed me watching him, as I sat beside him in the red light glow
When it…
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