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suicidal insects

suicidal insects shatter, splatter
on the windshield of my dark toreador red
Ford Contour,
leaving tiny tombstone markers
on the glass
as i flow with the traffic
at 80 in 51 South

i look at the world
through pink sunglasses,
a rosy shade cast over the shoulder
of the interstate,
small purple flowers floating
on a ballerina breeze

my hands caress the leather steering wheel,
wishing it were you
between my fingers
once again

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