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On the Way to Quakertown

ISSUE:  Spring 1991
Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide plays
on the radio and seems so obvious
I have to blink aside the glowing arch
and Midas Muffler, the Seven-Eleven
that always reminds me of my father’s misthrown dice
to realize this year the snow is different,
its falling less confusing, less complex, the clumps
of snow left on the road no longer conjuring
up grave mounds or breasts, and I slow down, knowing
this can’t last, that the ghosts will flock
back with a vengeance, the old opal ring
and wire-stiff bra, the pack of Luckies
and maroon Plymouth out on River Road, but for now it’s
Dunkin’ Donuts and PeeWee’s Diner, chrome glistening
from the Imperial Chrysler that I pass,
my window rolled down to the thawing air, my tires
hissing all the way to Quakertown.


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