"Check the glove compartment. Yeah--therey' go."

Sometimes, when I'm driving,
with the blur of the street in front of me,
I can't tell if it's raining
or if tears are welling up in my eyes,

my saddened, fatigued eyes.

And when I think of why,
all the cursing and meaningless
scorches and shrieks,
the wincing and glaring of

our saddened, fatigued eyes,

You touch, then I touch,
but not in the same way
so that you turn away
and the rest of the drive is

awkward and silent, too much like

our saddened, fatigued lives.