The oranges are tumbling
and hysterically ahead.
The hands have started moving
once again, once again.
Cackling laughter erupting
in gargles and drool
from the backseat.
But I no longer care.
As I whispered to no one,
"Those sidewalks keep coming"
So I shall go mark them,
with these tattered soles.
From that backseat?
I am not sure at this time,
for I have left the car.
The door slammed behind me.
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