My ride is half an hour
Beside me, left and right,
Private conversations
Blown to the stale wind.
Cognac on the menu tonight?
I’ve got a few hours to kill
Before the footy.
The nagging phone call
From the end of the day.
Sounds like we’re in.
But we don’t want you.
We just want to help
In any way we can.
None of these words
Are worked to rhyme
Or reason, only marked
By my arbitrary stop
The dreams of my day.
One thought