Am I really this loud brute,
This used car salesman,
Twanging my way through?
What is the quiet space between?
Who is praying before dawn,
between sleep, and waking,
that all are protected?
Where did the child under the house go?
Cool red clay staining his knees,
As they called from the sunshine,
Come out, come out,
We’re going to the circus!
Then their laughter, muffled behind slammed doors,
As the engine roared,
then faded away,
Into summer light.
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