Glide

The car in front of me in traffic
has a muffler made of a downspout
you could pick up at a hardware store.
It almost proves that if it works
it isn’t stupid.

The kids today charge their cigarettes
in the ports on their computers
until they glow like their supposed to
and they lean against the brick walls
of the strip malls they are stuck in for forever.

She peels the stickers off the paper
and makes them stick to her skateboard
she has not yet learned to ride.
The air rushing by her as she moves,
connected only to the wheels,
has made her understand the way
it feels to glide.

A small stand opens at the farmers market
but the only thing they grew were fucked up
strawberries that looked too muck like their hearts,
and didn’t taste the way they should have.
I think they sold one bag, and the sun went down
on everything around them as they took apart
what they had put together.

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