I stood small
in an old Chevrolet
on a cracked vinyl seat
\I rode between my father
and his father
between that seat
and an unknown sky
\a cold November morning
down a road
washed with the blue tint of winter
\there are no words
to remember
I have no phantom feelings
of that day
\I know now we drove north
that morning
I know now
the silence was real
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