Always another page to fill; the size and shape of the page is inconsequential. I keep my pen in my hand and my hands on the steering wheel.
*
The poet sleeps
while driving
during live broadcasts
the poet dreams
of the future
with folded hands
cigarette dangling
no one speaks to the poet
fearing fire in his eyes
the poet takes note
as always
to return to sleep
deep as abandoned mines
and dream across
landscapes of horror and delight.
truthfront 