Am I a man with no sense of direction, traveling alone, talking to himself? Am I a vague outline of a life that should be, but isn’t yet? Are my fists tight because of the cold or because I’m holding on to the only thing I’ve got,and if I let go I’m letting go for good. That night in the parking, that last round I bought, I was so sure I was man enough to make it home just fine, And as the wheels kiss the lines and the signs keep swirling by, I just drive and drive until I close my eyes. Then I beg, that question that is always on my mind,
“Is there still time?”
My life is a car drifting off of the road, and I may never make it home but, I’ll squint my eyes another mile or two just to find out, where it goes. Nowhere have I ever traveled, to a lonely place such a place as this, no heaven quite as worrisome, a weary traveler, a praying fist.