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To Royce Sykes's previous piece

Schoolyard Memories along Kings Highway

Bus grunts, farts an oily
miasma as it lumbers from
the curb; car horns hoot as
 
if in cahoots to prevent my
escape; with a sigh of dark
resignation, I settle back
 
into the lane, turn signal 
continuing to tsk--as if 
anyone but me is listening--
 
my thoughts roam toward memories' 
playground; some things never 
change, paranoia being one