Time in the car feels wasted, speed and desperation.
Slow for the rest stop, coffee, gas, desolation.
More shiny metal boxes slipping through the morning.
Crash; we’re each glad it wasn’t us, as we drive right past.
You still want it but you don’t even know what it is or what you want it for.
You still need it but you couldn’t quite say why you always get in your own way.
Sit in a cubicle and stare and screens and papers.
Smoke on your lunch break, take your pills, think it over.
Try to be friendly, hold the door and fake a smile.
Wait for the clock to say it’s 5, happy for an hour.
Stand at the cross-walk, pretty red wet light on pavement.
Hope that the bartender remembers your name, Bloody Mary.
What will you say when tall dark stranger asks you nicely,
“Will anyone miss you if you don’t go home tonight?”