The thankless job is standing
hands clutching for support as you swerve
in and out of clouds of carbon monoxide.
Your stomach and your anxiety
become the unsolvable riddle
of the chicken and the egg.
You crane your neck
feeble attempts to see the outside world
the sweeping landscape of tall cypress trees.
When your words start rusting as the bars that jail them
your cheeks grow red as the iron oxide
and your misuse of prepositions
scares you into silence.
To be quiet is a skill
not forgotten, but unlearned.
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