Introspection on a Motorway

Andrea Tomic

I look up to see stars and there is naught but a few specks,

Mars doing its own thing, barely looking any different than a star.

A satellite where all I can do is wave and hope that they believe that I am real,

Not thinking about how I am just a grain in the sand, a blip on Earth.

I travel in your car, though, and I can see what the stars are so dearly trying to speak to me,

Melodies about the pasts they regret, warnings about the futures they despise,

Anthologies about

Gods and creatures,

Imps and devils.

Not a worry in my mind.

As you continue down the road with my head pressed against the window,

Roads diverging into the horizon,

You ask “What are you doing, sweet child?”,

Putting your hand on my knee, eyes on the road, a joyful tone to your voice.

Laughing, I say “The stars are speaking to me.”

As your eyebrows raise, “Really? What are they saying?”

Cables of telephone wire pass by overhead,

Eagerness in my voice as I say, “Stories.”