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Today, you don’t make it past Livermore.
With a hundred miles to go,
you pull off the freeway.
You park.
You get out.
You watch traffic pass
at eighty,
heading northeast.
You wanted to see where she’d lived.
You imagine roads and barbed wire fences.
It was a long walk.
This is what you remember.
And big tin mailboxes
with their metal flags up.

Marc Petersen is a poet and photographer living in Santa Clara, CA. His work has appeared in Narrative, The Nebraska Review, The Georgia Review, The Sun, and elsewhere.

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