Traffic (Poem)

Wheels
dutifully
crossing the white lines.

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Motorcyclists
joined the parade
like a slow lava
or a careless British ball.

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Passengers
tread the tar roads
Lights
lit the last breaks
Playlists
play the preconditioned loops.

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Motors howling
Helmets prickling
Gases trekking
and the accidents
spilling the blood.

/

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