I would travel crucial distances,
the danger of no water, stopping to piss
by the side of the road,
a little yellow stream on the stones,
like liquid money.
Encourage the engine into flame,
urging it on with my right foot.
I would travel the depths of horizons,
driving the perimeter of the earth
until my hair is standing on my head.
I would not be away for so long.
The window offers me holograms of myself
and I lick a deliberate heart
in the misted glass.
My father, driving, nervy and apologetic,
foisting tin-foil sandwiches on me when
we stop. Father, I have gone without
water when I travel.
Stubbornly watch the endless road.