Check one,
sunrise.
Head thump and eyes blur,
because my walls
stayed sleepless.
Perhaps, because
they weren’t mine.
Check two,
morning.
A purr, a groan,
and press an engine
past 200,000,
because old
is all we are.
Check three,
noon.
Siestas
are for the poor
who have no time
for them.
And home
is far away.
Check four,
too bright.
Deserts breathe in sun
and out in dust.
I’m dry,
in more ways
then five.
Check five,
waning day.
Not evening,
which speaks death
or rest.
For there are
many
miles left.
Check check check,
car and soul still running.
Still going,
going…
Author T.S. Lowe 