I've got a tattoo of a highway atop my right shoulder. The broken white lines meet my skin. When I feel tired at work I'll rub my shirt across from where the tattoo begins to where it ends. People ask me why I do that so often. I tell them I injured my shoulder when I was young and my fingers help the pain. Sometimes I wonder if there are secrets and lies in all of us, if a highway touches all our skin. I wish, too, that each of had a tattoo we could lay down--and drive to where dreams come true.
Poems of the Week by Robin, Julian and Frank
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