Saturday, September 7, 2013

Terry McCarty
The bus is waiting.
Everything out of the motel room
Where I lost a sort of virginity
Spending a night with people
Other than family.
Quick breakfast.
Pay bill with money
from hiding place
inside my right shoe.
Look across the street
At the convicts in City Jail
Using a mirror to flash
SOS signals at the girls
In our high school band.
The bus is waiting.
I wish I could stay.

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