Nostalgic for a time and place that has never been,
you are lying in the back seat, idly gazing out
at the grey metal skies, and the road signs
all read backwards along the interstate,
but who cares — it is all passing,
like a thought, like a memory.
It might be a Sunday afternoon, it might even be
that time that never really was, except there is this feeling,
a sensation of traveling without moving, a kind of dreamy loop
that will never break out of itself, never be more than it is.
Still, there is a vague comfort in the nondescript monotony,
a warm atmospheric embrace, like what we all listened to
before we were born, before we made any tenuous decision
to assume some form — just that hypnotic serenade of tires
gliding along the highway, a lullaby of mechanical sighs,
without any meaning or necessity except what it is,
and not really wanting it to be otherwise.