Commuting fragments

My ride is half an hour

Beside me, left and right,

Private conversations

Blown to the stale wind.

Cognac on the menu tonight?

I’ve got a few hours to kill

Before the footy.

The nagging phone call

From the end of the day.

Sounds like we’re in.

But we don’t want you.

We just want to help

In any way we can.

None of these words

Are worked to rhyme

Or reason, only marked

By my arbitrary stop

The dreams of my day.

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