Carving Sapphire Pictures

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In the sprawling reststop parking lot,

the diesel fumes battle the neon signs

for permanence. All the trash strewn

spaces are deserted now, save for the

eighteen wheelers on the other side of

the gas pump islands. The silence hovers

in a 3 A.M. Walt Whitman way. Where

New Jersey sputters along the interstate,

but here in the eating area of the Roy Rogers

the nomads lounge vagabond gone in the two

booths in the back. They do not notice me

when I sit down several tables away. I eat

quickly, because the road to Virginia beckons,

but this sapphire tragedy calls to me. This is

the deepest blue that i've felt in a long time.

Young, once vibrant minds linger in these places

nightly. I watch as the night manager asks them

to leave. They comply, and I see them trudge out

to the parking lot, where the diesel fumes fight

the neon signs for transients.

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