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.