Your throat is sore.
Your ears ring.
There was not enough sleep in the night
to keep your demons at bay.
The coffee burns your throat,
a necessary evil for the journey ahead,
ten hours of road time, fueled by caffeine
and a sense of duty.
There is not enough of you.
You feel transparent, worn,
oil to other’s pigment.
At times, mostly, that is enough,
A second cup of coffee. A third. Enough
for the next few hours.
There are few tonics finer than that in-between place,
neither here nor there, effectively invisible.
Your demons cannot keep up with the silence
traveling at a few miles over the limit.
They will unravel. Fall behind, until
only you are left, still invisible,
to everyone save yourself.
About this poem
My wife contends that I need a road trip every so often to remain sane. It doesn’t really matter where. She’s not far wrong.