Two friends are waiting
in the cold for me to
show up, get there get
there they scream, but
I've got other things
on my mind, in my head.
Deep within some crinkle
of a lobe several circuits
concoct a friend propped
dead against the smoking
windshield as I wake up
from dreams of bombs.
On the side of the cup
a ring of coffee residue
lies open to serve as
reminder--blast radius
or excess exhaust, there
are things worth keeping
to show no one at all.
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