promises

miniature plastic canteens,
rumble in the trunk space,
i had filled these with the run off from northern glaciers,
now sitting in a dust storm,
thirsty like hell

with my desert throat,
i think about home,
or about how this highway is such an easy thing to coast,
for someone with a head so stop and go,
sometimes,
seized up from the stalled out clutch,
push and pull a gear box,
so back and forth,
sometimes

the autumn comes,
and heaven drops all its leaves down on us,
smells just like home,
but i'm always on the ready,
for the next train out of here.