You have two options:
you can wake up at some ungodly hour
to watch the same patched roads
disappear beneath the hood of your car,
poorly illumined because
even the sun
sleeps later than you do.
You can park in the same faded box
until you have enough wrinkles for an upgrade
and on your break,
unfold the same food from your paper bag.
You can sit at your desk,
in a chair that stopped spinning
long before your ass ever met it,
staring at the inside of your own shoe-boxed slice of heaven,
waiting for your supervisor to flick a check at you,
so you can revisit those scarred roads
and go to sleep early
because you’ll drown in your morning coffee
if you aren’t asleep by nine.
you can wipe the taste
of stale coffee and insurance policies from your mouth
and shove everything you’ve ever known into your shoebox,
drawing a dotted line from
home to the Great Unknown.
You can examine your relicts:
your goosebumps and goose eggs,
bandaged knees and patchy, rug-burnt elbows—
just don’t forget to pack them in your suitcase
the morning before you stretch your greedy fingers
for the grimy, catch-me-if-you-can railing
of a city-fleeing bus long caked
with the promises and the dreams
and the excuses of a million other passengers.
From your perch on the clammy vinyl seat,
you can watch your town
disappear from your peripherals
while focusing your lenses
on the plethora of paths and
roads and state-routes
opening their mouths to swallow you
in one great wide gulp.
You don’t know where they will take you,
but you place your faith in the bus driver—
who you only half-notice
because your eyes are through the windshield,
who is straddling the two options
and always coming back.