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Rush Hour

The solemn disc of the sun distracts me

as I follow the sluggish convoy

out of the city, its brightness

blunted -- like a penny gone brown --

by the same gritty mist that

sits on the road like a fat haze;

so dulled down that I can blink

at its round orangeness

without flinching

(even though I know I shouldn't).

And then I remember the road

And I sigh at my creeping progress

And wrinkle my nose against the dirty scent

of exhaust and impatience

And wish that I could peel its sticky fingers from my skin

And breathe /clean/ again. 

(c) 2004 Marion McDowell

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