Sound side rush hour,
a traffic jam of waves.
I try to ignore the
blinding glow.
Swallow the orange.
Be patient;
stay in my lane,
but the marsh grass cuts
like razor blades, and
the cursing sun slinks off
when I’m not watching
to find a parking spot of shade
to lick his wounds
and wait.
© 2024 | K.Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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