The Road

THE ROAD

It stretches,

miles into nothing

A single point,

of tar and gravel

pulled into one tiny point

in the future



Since the tires,

Pull, like a treadmill

I sometimes wonder

how the men working

stay in the same place…or if they do?



The sun is hot,

as it filters through

the closed windows

the sky fades,

to orange



The moon is cold,

as it chills the glass

the sky turns,

black



The future becomes

the present

Nothing constricts

The tar and gravel

are pushed into

the present



Aching muscles

call my bed

the things

can wait

I am home