In those long December nights,
I drive from town to town,
past signs, unread, in black and white,
eating up the ground.

Staring at the road ahead,
with changes on my mind.
Times I've had compare with this
unfavorably, to be kind.

Making the best of silence,
in the hours in between,
where gravel grinds and sleep is blind,
where engines shout and scream.

Truck stops make themselves my home,
if only for the night.
I know where I am and where I'm going.
Or, at least, I think I might.

Freezing air is visible,
and the wiper motors grind.
But in the back, with pillows, thick,
a welcome rest is mine.

Barely even morning,
when the light is still a thread,
I sit a while and smell the air,
and then go back to bed.

And when I feel the journey,
reaching out to pull me in,
I wake myself with steaming tea
and hit the road again.