| The girl behind the counter mixed lager and Seven-up,
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| and the dimple-toothed smile was for advertising,
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| like the faces on the walls of that little motorway restaurant,
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| while my secret dreams thundered away the trucks ...
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| Beautiful, of one of her unripe beauty, blonde without having the air,
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| almost sad, like the flowers and the grass of the railway slope,
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| the silence was only scratched by my chimeras
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| that I traced with a finger inside the circles of the glass ...
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| Low the sun on the horizon colored the shop window
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| and imprinted flashes and fingerprints on the gas pump,
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| do you mirrors? |
| to her soda-fountain that face of her as a child
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| and I ... did I feel unhappiness? |
| close ...
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| Ashamed, but just a little bit, I put a record in the juke-box
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| to feel almost in an old Fox movie scene,
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| but so as not to throw some useless clich in her face?
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| tapped an ind? |
| in the tin of a tea box ...
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| But in the game I should have said to her: "Listen, listen, I'd like to talk to you ...",
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| then taking her hand over the counter: "I don't know how to start:
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| Can't you see it, can't melancholy touch it today?
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| Let's not let it overflow: come, let's go, let's go away. "
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| Termin? |
| my atmosphere record in a creak,
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| did you hear? |
| a drip in that neon and heavy air,
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| overst? |
| the clatter that suspended sentence of mine,
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| "And I ...", but then he arrived? |
| a surprise couple ...
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| And in a moment, but as often happens, do you change? |
| the face of everything,
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| the pink nylon curtains suddenly erased all reflection,
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| my name is? |
| the dirt road, "How much?" I asked, and paid for it,
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| I left her a nickel as a tip, took the change and left ... |