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Wet Roads
by Michael Escoubas

I remember well riding
with my Dad in his rickety
drab-green `52 Dodge pickup.
The rides I liked the best
happened on gusty, wind-blown
nights crossing Cedar Street bridge
in Peoria. I loved the rain-soaked
city streets, the bright blue Pabst
Blue Ribbon beer sign winking
like an enticing woman, the long
shadows of orange, red and green
traffic lights distorted by wind
and rain. Windshield wipers
labored frantically beating back
heavy drops of pelting rain—
windows fogged up, I drew
happy faces then wiped them clean
with my sleeves. Through the fog
and eerie blinking lights, I knew one
thing: I'm with my Dad and all is well.  

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