the bowling center
where a kingpin once stood
among the Whitney hotel
or in the dusty Kerouac motel
with its panels of wood
he tried again to do something he once could
which was never writing poetry

flee the country
+
flee the pain

take this part of me
+
rewire my brain

Sick of each blade of grass blurring into the next, trees becoming a series of bushes, streaks of green across the skyline. Was that a cow?
“Look — some sheep!
Oh, wait no, they were just wrapped haystacks — sheep without heads.”
Speeding past flurries of road signs: ‘turn off at the next junction’
“What? The one back there?” Driving on for a few more miles before being able to turn back again.
Stopping
at the services
to relieve natural needs.
Except for rest — you can sleep on the road.
Except your sickness will persist through the night and
you could miss some significant sights
which will be gone by the time you open your eyes.
Sick of driving in the fast lane; life on play ready to entertain.
“Pass the sweets” trying to **** the sugar from the bitterness of passing time.
Sick of help lines dotted sporadically across the sideline but never quite
in reach.
Sick of this constantly churning stomach which only stops when
asleep.
Sick of momentary flickers of other passengers
before they too go on their way.
A lack of individuality; a wave of sameness
Comforting. Sickening.

Entering a town without knowing a soul, can always go hit or go miss.
So God led me here, right to this group, familiar as a long forgotten kiss.

Opening your doors to let me be a part, showing me the love that you spread.
Seeing all these people, connected to you, as if by an invisible thread.

So lucky I feel, having come this place full of people all gathered in love.
This special connection you share with each other must certainly have come from above.

A month has gone fast but I know in my heart, how our valuable time has been spent.
Serving those in need can take many forms , even helping them find next months rent.

Sometimes during a difficult moment, an argument can ensue.
But within a day it’s all squared away,  and your friendship is stronger than new.

Leaving this place will sting quite a bit,   I’ve grown quite fond of you all.
But places to go and people to see, is the journey of the wanderers call.

And the train pulls out
Of the station,
Taking travellers forward
And leaving others behind.

Depending on the time
Of the day,
This act is done
With little to no sound.

Like a silent movie,
Especially the cool of the morn.
Where are we all going;
Where are we all bound?