Ferried around, awash In fantasies loosely based On the myths of religion And free delivery. Culturally fated to the Incinerator. Cathode ray ether Offering a pleasant Numbness, Presenting the option To float through On a beautiful Puff of exhaust, Trailing behind The bus. Curb-side check-in, Conveniently placed to Get you airborne toward Your destination, unless Your destination doesn’t Match up with the route schedule. I suppose we could drive. But, they serve drinks and dinner On Delta. In-flight movie. Get a rag. Sinner, saint, politician, parent, Good, bad, ugly, All bent over the boss’s desk By the American Dream. Left sore, Whimpering, Like the puppies in the pond, Drowning for their imperfections, Yet, Back they always come for More. Do they find a certain Affirmation of reality through Pain? A few among are different. They are the greasy Drifters, the low-lifes, Who can still chuckle a bit At the straight white line Of a jet, 36,000 feet up, And stick out a thumb With increasingly fading hope That someone is going their way.