The road has a megaphone,
And it blasts my name with high-pitch
Reverb as I look sheepishly at my watch.
Six hours of sleep if I’m lucky.
Morning is the best time to drive.
The summer-sun story is in intro
And I can put down the book.
Too hot for sheets tonight, though.
Today’s narrative replays on internal pages:
Feet under a table, turned in and nervous
About the game strategy topside; an easy
Laugh; a strained laugh;
the smell of laundry and brats and church;
A dog falling limp on the floor — showing deference.
Home is power. Like the sun. I sweat.
I drift into that world between where
The math doesn’t add up.
Flashes of soccer, being a captain,
Reverting to defense, hiding in a maze of a school building I’ve never seen but knew instantly.
What am I running from and looking for?
I can hear the fans, anxious, cheering.
I hear the fan. I turn to rest my side.
Sweat beads on my brow.
Five hours if I’m lucky.