Trancelike attachment to hours-long monotony,
and blank of stare and mind.
Open to every possibility,
and strangers of every kind.

Unrelenting in every direction,
encouraged by boiling tar.
No place to be and nobody waiting there,
no place like home, when home is your car.

Winter gone and skies of turquoise,
arid wasteland either side.
No chance of rest, as rest is deadly here,
Sleep for a minute and never decide.

Gridlock, a memory, far from anywhere,
nothing familiar here.
Just push forward through the dense air,
and hope for a vision to appear.

Black, winding, rattlesnake roads ahead,
miles of dirt and dust.
Fire in the air - the plants are all dead,
and threatening to combust.

Lips sealed long ago by thirst and quite,
no one beside you and nothing to say.
Mile after mile on red hot tires,
middle of nowhere, middle of day.

All behind is a whisper from yesterday,
all of those people, oblivious now.
Nothing to do but continue on your way,
and search for a signpost to lead you to town.

When daylight fades, and the metal has cooled,
some roadside cuisine for the night.
Stare at the black sky and measure the fuel,
sleep and repeat at first light.