Highway #Claine Keily 163

When the few free days
are rubbed with images
of animals
never allowed to become dirty
and the roar of the bikes
ridden by children
outside my window
sounds like a death rattle
of everyone's freedom
I know I must return


The coal dust does not settle
it washes through
and I know that
all of us
are on the inside
filled with a stain
that does not
as yet
show


I see them rattle their toys
and I try to remain
untouched by mine
to not let myself be distracted from work
by the moonlight


We are all too tired now
to slow down
the journey to our bed
we plough down the rush of creatures
caught in our headlights
along the highway