art-time-collective

A million trees repeat themselves.
The dark, the heat and stagnant air
nod a hundred heads in seats to sleep.
Stops at all the Circle K’s. This one stays
still and sound, head down. Blinding glints
of grey-white sky flash from bog-patches
like shattered glass in an underpass.

He’s undisturbed for hours. Trucks pass,
gears clash. A radio drifts on and slowly
off again. That’s when they see the stain.
He wakes, dazed. A steward sighs. His face
rash-red, he ambles to the back. With him
a sour cloud of piss-rank khaki. Aisles gag
and wake as damp night sags over the maples.

Filed under: fixed hearts, verse