In(n)

In a complex metal box I steer not 
the roads but my thoughts, 
A conditioned cold stings my face 
and my wet cheeks are blown dry. 
Dry, I think I’ve become
Dry
I diminish 
and question too often.
The how’s and the whys, 
the banging on the door.
My strangled, hid cries
my hands scratched too sore.