Syracuse Bus Terminal
2:40 in the morning, Syracuse, New York.
Mashed snow in the tire-tracks.
A dark world turned to sludge.
Greyhound in a strange land.
An interstitial stop in a vertebral town
On the broken spine of the I-90.
This place is a monument to the can,
To vending machines and exhaust fumes,
The tomb of the unknown driver.
Nothing wilfully grows here.
The only smell is chlorine for sterilising.
There is no flavour. Everything is grey.
2:50am at the Syracuse coach terminal.
All the tire-tracks blend together
Into one big junction on the tarmac,
Leading to every distant promising horizon,
But nothing in itself. I’m snagged on
A synapse; I am a neurotransmitter,
Caught in the mid-state void between
A Friday impulse and a Saturday action.
3 in Syracuse.
Snow has erased the terminal.
And I’m about to make new tracks
That will never mean anything.
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