For how many nights have I slept in this car,
the dog behind the wheel,
across the back seat?
Unceasingly, passing headlights attack
and my sleep wavers like water
with the traffic’s tides.
I tell myself I couldn’t rest in a bed
surrounded by softly exhaling neighbors
asleep in their own houses,
faces lit by their radio clocks.
But sometimes a semi refusing to change lanes
rocks the car, and in my sleep I think
I’m still traveling:
the dog driving, I ride.
And not waking, I worry I’m turning too strange
to go home,
and an awful panic kicks in my chest
like an unstunned rabbit
in a pillow case.