I’ve got the grays

If you can’t hike through

the harsh road-less-traveled,

rob a stop sign from the Earth,

pull it from its cement roots.

Chew on the bit of highway

tossed between your teeth.

Mix the moisture,

roll it with your tongue,

spit it out and

lick it back in-

chew.

Anything to convince yourself

that the words your tongue is dripping

are not stale,

are still fresh,

that they have not been spitted out already

and are leaking from your mouth

in a gray

too similar

to the sidewalks

and the sidelines of something

stepped on

and spat

and mixed

and tramped

and

entirely

monochrome.

 

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