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Drip Dry to Fredericton
By Tammy Armstrong
wool sweaters balled over high-tests
we hike out to the highway
thumbing Thursday afternoon
truckers on their way to the mill.
All drop us some miles up the road
where we take turns
thumbing, drinking in irrigation ditches-
smell of mulching leaves
dog shit spring surrounding.
Wrung from the saplings
always the sombre dirt roads
leading to places we've been raised to fear
where we call, Can you see me now? Now?
from behind tamaracks.
Crouching, pissing over boots
fighting through bramble
back to the Trans-Canadian
diesel rumble of potential ride.
Mud scraped onto macadam
smiles, rearrangements of hair-
one hundred miles under a pullet angry sky
we race, a whim for freedom-
drip-drying our way to Fredericton.
will take you places.
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