It's Your Truck Now, Child.

Legs crossed upon a dirty bent bench seat,
Watching potato bugs crawl around by my feet,
Tracing red tail lights and embracing the breeze;
"Eighty nine degrees" reads the scrolling marquee.

A half-hearted simper rests on my face; 
It's quite quiet now in this chaotic place.
Your presence is lacking, but your impact remains -
You have flown on higher now, but left me here forever changed.

◄ Bottles and Lockets

The Question ►


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