Motor Man
His face is the grill
of a car, his mouth uttering
the diesel fumes.
Arms like axles and palms
like rolling wheels.
He can tell you the lay
of the land as far as eye
can see, then farther.
He's been up the highway,
married to it, loving it,
holding his face close
to the white strip lapping by.
Another turn,
another endless run.
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