A Poem: The Dirt-Covered Van that Drives Down Rock Road Every Day at Noon.

I'm addicted to the Dirt-Covered Van that drives down Rock Road every day at noon.
I'm obsessed with the four small fingerprints that provide a tiny window into the quirky old thing.
I'm in love with the dusty license plate reading 837 VAN.
I'm captivated by the dirty green color of the vehicle and the squeaking sound it lets off as it rattles helplessly down the tattered street.
I'm enamored by the thousands of bumper stickers stuck haphazardly on the back.
It's not my van.
It's not my fingerprints.
It's not my license plant.
It's not my bumper stickers.
But I meet it at Rock Road every day at noon.
I used to go outside and swing in the hammock at noon.
I was addicted to hammocking.
I would promise myself an hour of sky gazing and silence, and spent the whole afternoon outside in that thin layer of fabric strung between two trees.
But that means nothing to me now.
Sky gazing was boring, and there was nothing new to see.
So now I leave that to follow the Dirt-Covered Van that drives down Rock Road every day at noon.