Silhouettes of silos
Go streaking by
In the clear night sky.

I rest my head
On my fist
And then rub my eyes.

Why is it that
The trip home
Always feels shorter
Than the one away.

When did vacation
Become a memory,
And seem so impossibly
Far away?

I remember sleeping
With my forehead
Pressed to the window.

I remember feigning sleep
So that I would be carried
To my bedroom.