These Hazy Days

Nowhere Dawning

Morning dawns in the middle of nowhere.

When the sun touches my weary face

the corners of my mouth almost smile.

With shudders my car lurches onward,

heavy with desert dust and last night's

unceasing movement.

Before the light came I had driven --

I'd driven though I hardly knew

where to and what from,

feeling I'd lost the purpose

many weeks ago.

         At twilight a storm struck,

         forking lightning across the empty

         and impressionable flat plain.

         I'd rolled up my windows, and

         though the weeds tumbled

         in a frenzy as if urging me away,

        I had no real thoughts of resting.

         I don't stop. If sick people stop,

         they can rarely start again.

         I'm like a bad engine.

Now in the new light I hold tight

to the silver steering wheel, because

I'm too afraid to do anything else.

Oh, somebody key my car and

cut its tires, please --

from one stranger to another.

The morning is dawning and

I don't know where am,

and my tank is always full.