red lorry, yellow lorry.

its more out of fascination than anything else.
every day, the same view.
the same people in the same seats.
he knows their scalp conditions.
the same men.
the same women.
the same streets.
its not like he wants to take that route.
a.not.her route.
he just wants to know it.
he wants to know where the cracks are.
the patchwork of different tars.
those streets are a quilt of asphalt.
and concrete, lets not forget concrete.
he wants to know the density of it.
for every ton of concrete produced,
a ton of cabon enters the atmosphere.
he wants to breathe it in.
he wont tell mother nature.
it will be a dirty secret.
their little secret.
not that, you know, he actually wants to do it.
he just,

he wants to know the angles.
the cambers.

its only a fleeting thought.
sandwiched between rumors of war,
(its lines, its verges.)
and the financial section.

a small child starts screaming
and her mother bends over to silence her
and save her pride.

and the sport section

The End

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