Like a flash on some old distant highway
Where not even the carrots dared grow.
I, I was seven.
I remember breathing through my heels
As a sound like a distant comet
Shot through, Obliterating
Our rust-bucket earth, our cigarette garden.
My grandpa’s beard scratched the floor.
My mother’s skillet scrawled the will.
Outside, a rusted hubcap rolled by, bag packed
And headed for Georgia, which was ripe
That time of year, or so his cousin said.
I remember it all so clearly,
But I’ll be the first to admit,
This sepia-toned present.
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