It always feels the same.
Running here,
running there,
I’m always on the go;
never home.

The key glides into the ignition
out of habit, like a routine.
It seems to be the thousandth time
I’ve started my car lately.

Tapping the gas for a light rev
in hopes of it warming my icebox
of a car a little faster,
during the frigid chill of winter’s air.

I peel away from my spot.
Out of earshot of my mother,
I can crank the volume up;
The sound beats against
the vibrating windows.

My speakers crackle
at the bass drop of the music,
while I attempt to adjust the balance.

This is my routine
that never fails to change,
as I run here and there.

To the mall,
To the bank,
To work,
To a friend’s house,

Never different, but always the same.
Running here and
Running there,
I’m never home.

My car is with me when I run here
and when I run there.
It’s like a little kid clinging to my leg,
never leaving my side.
It always feels the same.