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Lurker

By Devon Neal

The way the darkness of early morning
blends with the stiffening leaves

and the hint of fog on the edges
on this October-chilled road, you’d almost miss

the black police cruiser perched in gravel,
lights off, a beard of steam pouring

from the exhaust pipe. When I first learned
to drive, we called them “lurkers”,

hiding on side roads, exit ramps, waiting.
This morning, though, I know she’s inside,

heat from the vents against her face,
scratching words soft into paper,

the poem that pulled her over.

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