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Rebel Crossed

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The waffle board of Sunday morning
A congregation expecting a meal
drives me to the exit, the end,
the bend in the road.
I smile, pretending to serve them brunch
But I twitch for the handle
To enter the car, to be
Liberated from cherried porcelain and rococo wood.
Jumping, I start the Chevrolet,
And I take that fork in the road.




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