DRIVING

He pictures himself en route,
always. Never quite there, never
quite anywhere, really. It’s the movement
that he seeks – yes? The escape?
He is captivated by the liberation.
And
he
knows
this.
Still, he tells himself he is headed
somewhere. He tells himself that
he is pointed in a direction. He tells
himself, sometimes, so himself
believes that there is an end
somewhere in sight. And there is.
Just
maybe
not
at the next stop. But
somewhere.
After all, everything, everyone
stops
sooner
or
later.
Somewhere.
Don’t
they?