Hitching

Cross-
hatched,
clotted,
her hair flies
everywhere in knots.
As the train rockets past her thumb,
i want to wind the window, break the glass, and holler
"Sugar, try a motorway. Unless you're brick-built with a sign for Diss around your neck,
this thing won't stop." She's a fuzzed dot by now. As we zip beneath the belly of a bird, a commuter, via phone, green-lights firing Amy.