We lived and thought as passengers,
awaiting lines, the terminus,
content as drifters to be moved,
and so we rode in crowded cars,
dim windows cracked as engines tensed
and scenery grew shadowy.

Careening through low sloping roads,
we tilted backwards, sideways, forth,
enough to drive us out of dreams
- distractions of unsteadiness -
until old transports stalled and ceased
and no sign hinted when or where.

Did someone say the driver fled?
A stranger claimed the steering wheel.
Another went in search of fuel.
Confusion kept most in their seats.
A few of us would leave to see
the nameless places minds run free.

Now no map tells us where we stand.
We make our paths across the land
and get to where we may each day.
We're not the lost. We're on our way.