Finite

The spring is a shock, I feel guilty to have lived beyond the dark small days into the blue sky that glides over the shimmering glass of rectangular authoritarian lies.

The hazy passing car afternoons where the self-conscious poor, hunch over our Formica tables, tea and leathery excuses, of buns. No matter about the silver soaring flights of the busy.

Yet still, exhausted I sit in someone’s semi-public back seat, he says I look tired out,  with a lisp, as I am driven through the back streets and the traffic of the match or no match and the radio sport and the Hollies. I am both leader and most vulnerable, this dangerous ride on the back of an eagle is easy and I don’t care if I fall off as the violence in my father’s van left me accustomed to accept death in a vehicle.

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