Sunday Driving

a car makes a sound
familiar
i rush to confirm
its not the car
i have been waiting for
and it is not sunday

the telephone rings
i rush out
out of breath
to reaffirm
there can't be anyone
missing me

then there is mail
a hundred logins everyday
to receive messages
from automated robots
maybe they understand
i need vitamins

i am trying so hard
to forget all these signs
and all those sounds
i squeeze out toothpaste
and forget what its for
where are my teeth

every other object
designed to bond emotionally
has served their purpose well
healing wounds
wounded again to reveal
how fine i could be without them

everywhere i go is
taking me further
less human more alien
everytime i go nowhere
i am in a hurry to believe
its not me driving

as the Beatles sing
in their insect voice
you and me sunday driving
not arriving
on our way back home
we're on our way home

we're going home