The roads are clear save for the
empty buses with windows frosted over
& I am the lone figure in the backseat
comfortable and vaguely sleepy
inventing romantic stories, purring to myself.
Poets might have sat and slept here -
future Presidents and murderers,
temptresses with redred nails.
The occasional exercise in empathy -
it warms me to think of you
somewhere out running in the cold
your breath coming in puffs
wondering if you'll be late for school.