All these missed chances
to write a single word,
to sum it up,
they left us inside
under florescent lights ungodly,
out in the sun, sheltered by the thin roof,
travelling fifty, sixty, seventy miles per hour,
it's hard to say if they looked back,
I believe they never did,
so-
watch over the horizon,
he said they'd return,
browned and smelling of the sea,
or was that John for Nero?
numbers carved into his brow,
Either way, someone will be showing up,
so all we have to do is wait
and pass our can of Coca-Cola,
drowning our thirst.
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