Another Express

by Christopher Jones
The driver doesn’t know the route,
he’s lost it somewhere on the way.
He makes random turns and crazy weaves,
goes faster, as though speed and
desperation can break the grip of direction,
find a proper path.

Everyone feigns absorption in newspapers,
magazines, ignores the blurs in the windows,
the reek of the driver’s sweat.
You and I sit together, clutch our transfers.
I panic and stand, ignore the handrail
and scream "We’re lost!  We’re lost!"

But everyone glares at me,
hisses "Shut up!", you touch me lightly
and say "We know."

© 2001 Christopher Jones. All rights reserved.