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Poem: Slick 

It picked

a Hell of a night to rain.

That frog picked

a Hell of a time to cross.

I picked

a Hell of a second to swerve.

Your brakes picked

a Hell of an instant to lock.


This is what they tell you

when the Ride is finally over:


You've learned nothing

—wasted space—

if you haven't absorbed

the theme:

We pick nothing.


We

pick

nothing.


We pick nothing

(but our words).

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