A bizarre
Dream of a runaway car,
As real
As this desk I feel.

A mad man driving,
Me striving
To get out.
No point to shout.

Me on the phone.
The driver alone
In his crazed head.

We stop, I am not dead.
A few incoherent words are said
By one
Who is in his mind far gone.
I stay.
He moves away.

—

A day breaks much like any other.
Soon I may discover
What man drove that phantom car
And who we really are.
Perhaps he is me
And I am he …