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The wheel is his. He starts to sweat. He hasn’t parallel parked yet. The engine growls. The mirror shakes. He signals left—and slams the brakes. We haven’t left the driveway yet. The teacher mutters, “No regret…” Then flinches like we’re in a jet. We hit a squirrel (it faked). High stakes. The wheel is his. A biker swerves. “I’m fine!” they fret. The GPS says, “Turn? Not yet.” A pylon dies. The curb awakes. The mailbox trembles. Dad just shakes. We call it “progress.” No one bets— The wheel is his. |
PS:
How
to Write a
Rondeau.