It is Tuesday, I think

I am a bus driver, in a race across the country

My big black bus, revving up for the green

My unrecognizable copilot next to me,

Giving directions and flipping radio stations.

The green drops, the race begins

Green busses, brown busses, red busses, white busses

Slow busses, fast busses, convertible busses, broken busses

We are in the lead, fumes trailing out the giant chrome pipes behind us

Others sucking them up.

The speedometer races up past one hundred,

I turn, tip and roll

It flips, and now it becomes a hill

Spinning around me as I fall.

Suddenly, a tight pull

The rope from my harness catches

My boots dig into the snowy cliff where I am hanging.

I pull myself up, my arms feeling nothing

As I crawl up

The rope snaps

Falling spinning, hurling towards the ground

KACHING FLAP

My arms grow into wings

Flapping, I fly

Soaring and diving

The skies are mine.

Suddenly, crashing down

ZAP CRACKLE POP

The skies become an alley

Three pushers fighting for turf

I interrupted and was paying the price

Fists into my stomach

Boots into my side

Only darkness hears my cries for help

Then

HONK HONK HONK HONK

The alley disappears, in it’s place

My bedroom

The pushers replaced by a jacket, some jeans and a shirt.

The dreamline pauses until tonight

Never ending

Only pausing

Ready to return again

Tonigh.