Like the little death, fun is now over.
Winter turns shoulders with white lines under blankets of snow.
Sand and salt scratch the backs of tar snakes
who's slither and bite have slowed.
Gone the scent of hot rubber in the sun,
that peculiar flavor of gasoline,
that cherished tear while we turn our back to a circle of friends and ride home.
Asphalt swells and heaves with tectonic cracks.
Shutter no more, the warm blanket of bliss is pulled from your form...
Until next spring.
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