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Traces

Returning home
at midnight,
lorries pass me
on the main road.

Years ago,
before I gained
my respectability,
I'd have thumbed
a lift
on one of those;
through the night
to morning
somewhere else,
new places, new faces, traces
of freedom.

I walk on home
to bed,
for tomorrow
I face
again
the workaday world.

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