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"What year is your ride? It’s really beautiful."

I turn off the car and hand over my my license,

consider what to do with an

out of place compliment.


He asks if I know why he pulled me over.
Because an asshole wouldn't let me in
so I took what's mine with no regrets. 
"No," I say.


The citation comes in quadruplicate,

an unsafe change in lanes.

Love the red interior, he says,

be safe.


I pull away carefully,

wondering what carbon paper costs these days

and how it would survive

without constables.