it's the kind of morning
that puts your traveling shoes
on for you
free of all hitherto conventions
when your thumb led you down
a whole lot of dead ends
wasn't any foot dragging
that you'd admit to
a young foot never looks back
everybody knows the highway's slipping off the mountain
toll gates around every bend
the new mad ones text on cruise control
the sage brush still leaves blood in its path
a cluster of cottonwoods
still a good place to hide
move on
if you can't put much credence
in what can't be touched
--- e b bortz
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