Bedward

What have I done
with another day?

Relics from times when music
wasn't atrocious
flood my vehicle with raw voices --

And me, one bead
on highways of abacus strings
zipping
back and forth
'twixt the frame of work and sleep.

Ah, to drive at night
when few souls are conscious ..

I own the roadways , then,
until I give into
routines of slumber , each
feline, in their places
among my bedding , where
it no longer matters
what happened to the hours .