A twenty-five minute rest stop feels more like a prolonged gasp for life
and everybody’s waking up with two hours left of bleary black outs.
I feel sorry for the poor bastards staring out the tinted windows
looking as black as the highway looking in.
It’s better to sleep then with rocking headphones.
Waking up from the monochrome of closed eyes every so often
that you might as well be blinking the miles away
and finding sleep behind the black wheels spinning
like so many cd’s — more or less obsolete and silvery
black rumbling about losing icy minutes to skipping
scratching and stuttering. Eventually it stops worrying.
Eventually we all stop worrying. Flip the bus
Over and over and round and round. Round and round.
Somehow anticipation drives faster than resignation.
Somehow this driver goes faster than the riders.
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