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The plastic jug is slumped and red,

I’m filling it for one last mow.

The fumes are swirling in my head

as traffic starts to surge and flow.

A drop of fuel lands on my skin,

my thumb turns white and starts to sting.

It’s how the winter enters in,

dissolving every summer thing.

A rainbow slick begins to crawl

across a puddle near the drain.

It shimmers like a bruise on oil

above the grit and sandy soil.