Cracked side mirror,
A tire lying on its side
As smoke rises from the overheated engine.
The bakery comes into focus.
Flowers, benches, and the sharp sting of cinnamon
Trip from the bookstore.
The door opens,
And she takes in every shelf:
The worn-out carpet,
The round table that wobbles on one leg.
She stops,
The book’s cover, a cherry red like her car,
The silver title, the broken antenna,
As the afternoon sun scuttles away from the broken image.
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