Greyhound

The tires hug the pavement
like airport reunions.
The humming engine sings a lullaby,
lulling day-trippers to sleep.
Trees stand one deep,
a gauntlet,
for the burning highway.
And the stars can't be seen,
for the dirt on the window.
The airplanes are the only stars
shooting,
and I wonder where has
the river gone?
The clouds are blacker every day
and no one sees the moon.