Field after field races by—
empty spaces, unoccupied,
and my heart identifies
with them— with the lack of life.
I stare out the window of the bus. My head aches.
I shift in my seat, wondering how much more I can take.
YOU ARE READING
Every Last Drop
Poetryfor hard times. for the lonely late nights. and the tears we cry. every last drop. * all rights reserved
