no one is coming.

it’s another cold night

in bed

alone

again.

not that i’m complaining

what’s one passing connection?

when compared to the

many synapses in my brain?

my own brain.

pondering my own thoughts.

cigarette after cigarette.

ash spilling over onto my hardwood floor.

‘you said i was a back seat driver’

i wouldn’t be if you could steer your way through your own life.

‘you said i was the map reader’

get your damn driver’s license

on the road on the road

i’m my own taxi service

keep your lip service

for some haughty hard body

hit the emergency brake.

i want out.