Riding on rust and waves of road
We go west under blankets
Of not quite white or black
At this hour dakota is dead
Even the man who sits in his chair
Somewhere near Sentinel Butte
We'd slept in seats some nights before
But something led me to the door
A pair of legs reclined but not relaxed
Rigid under an orange hue
Spoke to me so high and shrill
No movement meant nothing for him
If he was even really there
The reality was only me
this is one of my favorites so far--feels nostalgic.
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