East Georgia Road is redemption, growing old
under oak trees that slant towards Woodruff
in a slow, creeping way that apologizes for
reaching in and pulling out shards of what is left.
The car I drive is red, and bugs lay their lives
on my windshield, smearing white whiskers and legs
on the glass I cleaned yesterday. It's hard to believe
that the gas, the slime I pumped into the car
is still trembling in droplets at the bottom of the tank.
I should have been home an hour ago,
but Bob Dylan carries me
past my blue lips and into his stomach
where I rumble like charcoal after an overdose.
His voice is acoustic coffee, swollen
with grime and disappointment
whatever made you
want to change your mind?

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