There ‘s a truck on the motorway, driving
through the early morning fog.
It is heading south out of this city,
carrying someone’s home to someplace else.
The rest of us are going nowhere.
Though some call it work.
And we are paid for our effort.
In the car behind the truck there is a
young woman.
She is wearing a woollen hat; the car
heater can’t be working so well.
Her eyes don’t really see the truck; they
are fixed on someplace else.
Which may not exist, but she wishes that it
did.
In front of me there is another woman
driving.
She is looking in the mirror at her
lipstick and she reaches for some in the bag on the seat alongside her.
She checks her eyes and adds some mascara.
She doesn’t see me watching.
She is waiting for an invitation to
someplace else.
We won’t get there.
Isn’t all this pointless?
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