Spencer Linford

The Ride Home

Numb, beleaguered legs, long wandering uneven pavement.

Exhaust passing in a whir of choking fumes.

I’m here and I have been before, 
but not there and not 
with that 
Iron, cold 
clad in a rotten homemade jacket,
I too un-feel.

Jumbled steps down filthy streets climax in a smacking seduction of wet stubbled flesh.

A tartar ill conceived and poorly executed.
I wish the light was brighter here,
in here,

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