The English Greyhound Sound

All I can hear is the English greyhound sound as we  
pound along the sodden ground.  
I rolled up my ticket to use as a cigarette
or tooth pick, I passed mighty stretches of farmland
alongside the motorway, imagining they're mine.  
 
Passing through a little town I could see little church
spires cuddled up with plumbing depots through steamy  
hand written hearts on the windows, it's an opening into  
someone's life.
 
The binding twists and turns of alien roundabouts,  
doubts crowd my mind; 'Am I on the right bus?' is whispered  
over my earphone symphony as we pass an American style  
diner.  
 
..Am I in America? I may as well be, I'm lost.
 
Drowning in a loss of innocence  
as I make my way back from another part of the country.
I probably dropped it getting out my change for the bus,
or did I leave it in the bus station?.. I'll never know.
 
Passing winos, bums in crack head slums as drums bring me  
back to the matter at hand.  
 
I scanned the bus for something to scribe or a fraction  
of something to get some kind of vibe.  
 
but my words were lost on the outside tide,
it cascaded down the window and all possibilities of rhetoric
were washed away.  
 
Phone numbers on the backs of seats, invitations  
to come and meet.  
 
An awkward stare meets scary glare as the sweat drips down  
the windows fair.
 
A hiss and jerk, my awful smirk.. at people getting off  
for stops, beneath the drops... but don't complain..
cause I'm stuck here in a longer game.