It’s an endless stretch of tar,
Tearing through town settlements and nowhere
There’re patches and pot holes here and there,
As though the traveler to ensnare
A bridge decries a hard old life
There’re no lights to show the way at night
It’s as though a journey to the death
And of course, you’re not so ensnared for nothing;
Morgues, not hospitals or ambulances, dot every pole:
To receive and keep you, whether whole or a mangled mass,
For that moment when yours shall gather with you for a last Mass.


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