the half mile drive to childhood
used to be a half mile walk to the yellow bus
and we forget to see our own No Trespassing signs
my cursor knows the way
drives me, a passenger, often
in places
the treed walls so tall they mimic a ceiling
in places sides are open
windows that look one way
the trailer where i used to play
the last pitch was steeper then
reality and perception wore it down
park beneath the shade
leave the keys in the ignition
if anyone works their way out here
deserve is on their back
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