one is well versed
in the number of steps it takes
to unwind all 480 of those minutes
from the deepest fibers of their being.
the punching of the keys on the time clock card
the walk through the alley past the trash cans
the shifting into gear
the rush hour traffic on the 101 north
the motorcycles roaring in between the lanes
the scanning of the radio
the newest overplayed hit pop song
the sun raining in through the drivers side window
the homeless on the corner of the hollywood boulevard exit ramp
the only open parking spot on garfield place
the collecting of my things
the sidewalk toward my building
the white gate with the inward swinging door
the climbing of the stairs
and the fumbling of my keys
to the turning of the deadbolt
home
is all one ever needed to be reminded who they are.
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