backseat

Is there an end to this kind of waiting? Is the day getting to feel like there’s no end and no beginning, like any time of the day feels the same as any other time? Amidst cars and people crisscrossing, I stand, not to express my non-conformity. Simply.

I don’t know where I have to go.

You say I look lost, tired. What you can’t see are the words brewing in my stomach. I have to make a push. I have to make a push.

What I see in front of me, backseat passengers and the backs of their oily heads. I go around them and the heads in front of them and those in front of them, and all the while, my stomach humming something monotonous, solemn, and acidic.