It's your town. Nice cookin' with you. Attitude seeps 
from the cracks, like steam from a kettle, like blown 
mist over the mountain. Purse your lips and exhale. 
When you reach your street, you relax a little, but you
drive slower, because you know the kids here, and that 
they might skateboard off the end of the driveways, 
careen your life into new territory as they end theirs.
Follow the cardinal with your eyes. He seeks a nother tree, spells dissatisfaction with his screech. 
You long to follow, but this is your street.

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Index of new writing © 2004 Thomas Coleman
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Tom.Coleman@dla.mil

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