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Merridawn Duckler


Everyone looked pissed they’d won the weather lottery.

I feared for my immortal soul, i.e., that no one would bid on it.

By Smart and Final (store and commentary)

you hated me as much as the compostable

plates I made you buy, composting in the trunk.

I realized we were driving ghosts                                                                                       

who would never leave Los Angeles:

the blue plate special sky, drive-by bougainvillea;

the freeway where an old exit to Pasadena appeared

and you pointed, saying: Look, from when there were only baby freeways

and no one understood merge.



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