Sleepless and exhausted,
I sat waiting to depart,
staring at the gutter,
from the darkness of my heart,
watching all the detritus
of tiny lives flow by
pushed by rain to endless sewers,
to disappear and die.
Half-hiding, nervous,
and dressed in black,
I mount the bus,
a low-rent Don Quixote,
without Sancho at my back.
Away from all the windmills
looming darkly in my past,
as far from Dulcinea,
as that ticket may forecast.
My Greyhound Rocinante charges,
fast as its worn tires can endure,
away from the conquering gray surrender,
to a warmer place secure,
where chivalry can die in peace,
away from other peoples hopes,
where other peoples prayers may cease.
The poor bus whines and grunts,
as miles pass by in cadence,
made tedious by pot-holed roads
and landscapes gently darkened
in the gloaming light's abode.
At last I drift to sleep alone,
without the burden of unwanted dreams
and expectations of my life
by those unhappy with their own.