Loaded into the car, driven for miles and hours
Dumped on the road without even a puppy blanket
Do I think someone will ever come?
No. I’ll still hope and have vivid dreams, but no. What we think and what we hope for are often two different things.
(You can always tell hope because it’s artificially sweet. It’s a candy that makes promises like a politician, but in the end, you’re in the same shit neighborhood with the same shit job, and beside that road.)
I can stay here forever, though. It’s not so hard. There’s plenty of candy in the dirt. I’ll get poems out of it. And I know you’ll drive back. And I know the sound of your car. I can hear it miles away. And I’ve already dug myself a hidey hole.