the wayfarer’s son
there is nothing normal
going on here
or at least that’s what it seems
to any casual observer who might
happen to overtake this transport
it’s full speed ahead
zooming past all the rest stops
where people drink coffee and
talk about what it means to be human
every new place seems the same
so many sons and daughters
manipulated by promises
fading into the scenery
blending in with the unnoticed
and unmotivated
and/or heavily sedated
steering clear of deep dives
I swear to god (once again)
there are some things I don’t talk about
especially to perfect strangers
let alone myself
march two thousand seventeen
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