THE ROAD

It stretches,

miles into nothing

A single point,

of tar and gravel

pulled into one tiny point

in the future

Since the tires,

Pull, like a treadmill

I sometimes wonder

how the men working

stay in the same place…or if they do?

The sun is hot,

as it filters through

the closed windows

the sky fades,

to orange

The moon is cold,

as it chills the glass

the sky turns,

black

The future becomes

the present

Nothing constricts

The tar and gravel

are pushed into

the present

Aching muscles

call my bed

the things

can wait

I am home