Not Having It
when the echoing returns softer
spaced at random
more sober
and less reserved
your car speeds up by itself
you are past fear of crashing
you fold your legs on the seat and yell ‘weeeeeee’
throw in the sponge
take your hands off the wheel
let ‘er rip
time kills Zika virus
space kills avian flu
velocity kills the boredom from waiting
for the best in people to return
rudderless
it seems less likely to take hold
the eroding sense of self
takes charge
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