Steam dances in patterns on the blue-tinged glass of my windshield
The vapors painting their way from the paper cup perched on the dashboard
If I move the car now
Surely the beauty of the picture will change
But would the image be destroyed?--
Or would only the fine-grained leatherette interior
And who are we to say that a coffee stain is not art.
So I start my car, anyway
And lurch forward.
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