Here is where the homeless heart is stuck
in peak hour traffic. Here two million lives
are choking as they fume. A million wives,
a million husbands couldn’t give a fuck.
Their one thought ticking over in the thick air:
Get me there! Away… where fingers worm
about the thick soil in and under roots
to plant imaginary seasons’ fruits
(those bumper crops), where annual’s a term
of hope, where being is the only prayer.
I can’t say where you’ll find me winding up.
All roads lead anywhere you choose to steer.
I’ve had it with this life. I’m winding up
the windows and I’m getting out of here.