by Kirk Jones

    Sorry, he said,
    as he stumbled out the door,
    back home,
    on a Greyhound,
    memories spanning,
    from ground coffee,
    to cheaper cigarettes,
    smoked past the filter,
    anxious minds behind the vacuum,
    from the howls of the wind,
    and the dust clouds covering the city lights in the distance,
    making it impossible to see the way.

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