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Sport 15: white horse black dog

The Hitch

page 74

The Hitch

Actually, I don’t dream.
If I do, I don’t remember.
Instead I hitch—end up in
the middle of nowhere
pulling out my sleeping bag
—which turns out to be
last month’s dirty washing.
The night is long and cold and smelly.
I try counting centre lines.
The morning slopes toward me,
wide-eyed, with its thumb out.