A Year of Poems – Day 54

There is an egg shell road.
Cars follow it about the traffic circle
The shells are brittle from overuse
the marrow has been sucked clean
after years of narrow rhymes.
But the road holds.
Though the bone-shells break and chip,
it holds the weight of traffic,
which is the purpose of a road.
Traffic continues as the cars
continue to circle
at high speeds
without an exit.

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