He drives right through the artificial light,
on a bright city night, past a fast moving mass
of cranky-faced people who brisk-walk across
cracked concrete in a worry-hurry motion headed home.

He comes to a booth that demands
more money for the drive through a tunnel,
burrowed underneath the river
to another borough on the other side.

He makes a late arrival at the site
of his survival and a sleeping curved
bump lying still beneath a neat white sheet.

The TV alive, with talking heads inside,
as he drops in his chair just to sit a bit
and listen to the gloomy-doomy warnings
of the ever-changing strangers,
who shout about the isolated dangers
to the Lone Robotic Rangers of the world.