Window Seat​ Blues

The ​rolled up glass,
my whimsical barrier

for a shrinking playpen.

Will it keep a childhood immortal?

And keep out the dust 

from an unkempt Indian highway .

We see reality rush,

in haste, a future, 

destiny and her wheat shoots.

The passing fields 

demand to be sowed, reaped

and then burnt to dirt.

It combusts fast though,

the minutes,

and the fuel in our car.

The radio comes alive,

let us run, baby run;

toward nowhere, yet everywhere.

Toward everything

but this trepid window,

for just behind it lurks our future.

-- Leslie