![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC5FqHSM4JavSIHdAWXfu4bwxdi-3M7o8UOCMQcd_99MIWHsD12zsZHGwAnkRWD0572R6WdJM0uTW4py8bH6k9rBlxWIrFB-_BQBE8D3USAkBQH2d-uobZg0fqCV4-Lcoj9O0GaVdu32g/s400/79215158_9v95ja9m_SyriaMay071231.jpg)
A SUNDAY DRIVE
The pavement, the concrete,
that speeds the pace
To arrive at nowhere has many mouths.
Oil drips became orifices.
Each black mouth is open
With a black tongue sticking out.
Each black crevice in each black lip
Receives a cellular phone call and kiss
From the dreamer behind the wheel.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Poetry Bay
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