Snow, late March

“And this was supposed
to be done” speaks the highway.
This comfortless blanket.
Sudden smack from a bearded sky.
The bus trundles forward.
I am cradled fetal posed
above it’s resentful gut,
synthesizing diesel into movement,
though we are barely kinetic
against this layer of clouds’ shedded skins.
The excitement of friction, dashed.
The road begins to speak in hydroplane.
Lullabies slathered by a tongue too slick
for words to stay straight,
or have trustworthy meanings.
Ankle deep in what we hoped
was only “38%” destined,
but who really believes in divination,
anyway?

We watch our distance
stretch unnatural.
My window is a slideshow
of black & white. White & black.
There is nothing to say to this landscape
consumed with birthing and devouring itself
so contentedly.

The billboards have taken
to calling my name.
They demand answers
for why I only notice their wailing
when they sky deems to press its hand
upon human time, and we have nothing to do
but wait.

So, here it is again.
Another bus ride.
Another 2 hour sprint to a city he hates,
to escape a city that now stirs
his ire as well.
Where to go from here?

The high ideas of man
who runs from the grasp
of people who are not reaching
for him. Doors that yawn,
but will not breathe him.
Reach behind the chandelier-like
uvula to pull out
something he will recognize
despite the disgust. Despite the smell
that kicks and screams into your memory.
The reason for him to turn back. To remember
your name, even though it hurts him
sweet as honey still in it's comb,
tangled and guarded, and maybe not even worth it,
but he is a fool. And he holds your face
more tender than he ever would his own.
This means nothing to you. Some humorless
joke. You will laugh like a cannon.
He will laugh with a family of knives
nestled inside his neck. He will laugh
himself headless. And your smile will resemble
a fruit scooped out.