Between Tres Olivos and Santiago Bernabeu

Between Tres Olivos and Santiago Bernabéu 
is where I normally nod off.

It’s on that stretch that I get a seat.

I’m never fully gone.

Always aware of my bag
with the lessons and laptop.

And of the need to get off.

The dreams come down like crows
to peck at the eyes of the not yet dead.

Strangers (usually)
walking through my head.  Which lolls.

I know this from when I look up.