The midnight air is humid,
And I am standing at the corner,
Watching the headlights cut through the dark.
I used to think this journey was a gift,
A ride toward a horizon I could name,
With a driver who knew the way.
But I looked at the seat beside me,
And the metal frame had changed.
The ones who should have bought the fuel,
Who should have checked the tires and the chain,
Have climbed into the sidecar instead.
They have sat down
In the rusted chair of the future.
They have folded their arms
And closed their eyes,
Leaving the handlebars to me.
How can I feel the wind on my face?
How can I choose a different turning,
A narrower path, a steeper hill,
When the weight of their survival
Is bolted to my frame?
A tricycle cannot fly;
It is bound to the asphalt.
And I cannot be a wanderer
When I am the only engine left.
My “freedom” is a phantom,
A dream of a road with no passengers,
While I move through the silence,
Carrying the people
Who were supposed
To carry me home.