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By John I. Blair

Why was I sitting
In my brother's ancient pickup?

(My brother doesn't even own an ancient pickup.)

Why did that Mexican shopper
Pause by my fender
To place her hulking son up on my hood,
Where he rolled around and crushed the metal?

Why did she vanish in the dusky evening?

Why did I let the boy climb in the cab
And talk me into driving, looking for his ma?

Why was I in a hilly neighborhood
Of crumbling wood Victorians
When I live in a modern prairie city?

Why were we bouncing down an asphalt alley
And over curbs,
Unable to find the parking lot again?

Why, before discovering
The answers to these questions,
Did I wake up?

2004 John I. Blair

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