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The Pink Vespa

I’ve walked down this route for seven months now.

I know all the faces, learned all the potholes, seen all the vehicles.

But I don’t ever think of those silvers, whites and blacks.

I think of you, parked at the end of the line, all majestic in your royal color.

My curiosity wonders what your story is. Why of the many blues, reds and yellows, do I only want the story of your pink?

Why did someone choose you? Why their choice to stand out?

I might never meet the person who started your journeys, but thank them for me.

Because when every morning I see you parked at the end of the line simply and bravely being yourself, it brings me hope and assurance.


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