Journey to Reporters

Miles and miles of granite
Stones, soil and gravel
Cement, tarmac, bitumen
Fly by, under spinning wheels

And we speed upon undulations
That rise to pop our eardrums
All within this glorified tin can
That sports audio, video, and bums (on pillows)

Clouds and clouds of darkening sky
And we pass the trees, houses, and brambles
Stops, shacks and shanty houses
And occasional clusters of a town

It is the same road all the while
Through which shapes and scenes do shift
And we float by further hurtling cans
Into the dimness of the night

In our minds the flash of cameras
And still the humming of reporters
As we trade our happy laughter
As we talk of wives and rest.