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Gas Can

Dan Pinkerton

I can’t speak on your behalf, but I feel
inflamed.  It’s only a newfound movement,
as though the limbs have been cut from casts. 
I know a man who mistakenly set
himself on fire while heaving gasoline
from a bucket.  I never visited him
in the hospital—I was too impressionable
for that sort of thing. 

Tree limbs scratch the windows of the bus. 
It rolls along at a steady clip, down
a street lined with houses.  Streetlights shine
in puddles.  I listen to music, for I’ve
heard that others do this while riding
the bus.  In one of the houses lives a
boy who will become a musician or
actor, someone of minor importance,
and he will forget about this street.  I’m
trying to forget myself, if only
we can keep from running out of gas.

Dan Pinkerton

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