Route nine, two thousand times, by the yellow sign Counting each second, under drowning pines Waiting for another moment to arrive, repeating numbered smiles between sighs. Picking up needles paired like twins between finger and thumb they spin Passersby grin in the wake of wet tires Deliberate hair plastered with cool July brine I can already hear the boxcutter's whine, or have I fallen asleep again? Route nine, two thousand times, by the yellow sign, only looking forward to a warm blue bus before work