I am born
in Greyhound dreams
sleek and wild.
I hear the rumbling music
through the night
smell of diesel
fast yellow light lines sliding by
through the magic time and space
of the interstate.

Catfish shacks beckon
but we don't stop
I turn, longingly, thinking
of fishing poles
and a long and lazy man
on the river bank,
waiting for me
home rolled smoke between his teeth
humming something blues
but we don't stop.

The fried chicken lady
snores softly
fourteen children
in her lap.
The big man next to me
slumps against my shoulder
pinning me to the dusty diesel window.

I peek through the windows
of ticky tacky houses with
night lights and burglar lights
and motion lights in the yards
fear me, I think to them, and
fear the big bathless guy and
the fried chicken lady and her
fourteen kids, for we are
terrible to behold,
after three days in the Greyhound dream.

I see the late night sidewalk people
as we pull in, huffing and grinding.
They aren't afraid of us, I know.
What's it like to be them?
I think I knew, a long time ago
but now, I forgot.

But I'm a flea
on a big beautiful fast moving dog
I can jump off anytime, and be reborn
and I can remember
whatever I want, and see
whatever I want, and be
whoever I want
when the bus that births me
sets me free.