Route 42

The Lancer is a corpse of iron

rotting in the gravel drive.

Now I’m pressed against the plexiglass,

vibrating with the diesel’s low thrum.

A man in a parka slick with grease

wipes his nose with a sodden sleeve

before he grips the yellow bar.

We are all sharing the same stale air,

waiting for a stop that never feels like home.