the long drive

it's a long drive
home in the rain,
in the fog,
on black
empty streets,
with your headlights
on, your hand turns
the dial but
all the stations
are wrong,
you settle on
silence, the sound
of your tires
grabbing the hard
wash of road.
the thump
of wipers against
the windsheild.
farmland
rises on either
side, as you
hug the right
lane, in no hurry,
letting everyone
pass you by,
the winter fields
are barren and cold
with black cattle
lying in the dirt.
you see someone in a
blue shirt staring out
a window in
a farmhouse.
it's a long
drive home,
in the rain,
in the fog,
alone.