So the apology
has been duly bitten into,
bitter fruit that it is,
and a new task lays itself
prostrate at the foot of the bed.
My newish headspace
stinks like burning asphalt,
not my fault or anything.
I’m here only to observe.
The service-station ambience
is sufficiently underwhelming.
Some discussion tears
the floorboards up
in a mild rage, and amid the hissy fit,
I feel somewhat degraded.
Not the trip I’d been anticipating,
but worthy of remembrance
in its own peculiar way.
By all means,
keep writing down what I say.
Somebody ought to have
something to show for this.

-r. miller

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