The snag wagon screeches in the semi-consciousness of semi-awake people. Second lines are always hard to come by. Second lines aren't easy especially for those with mid-life crisis. It’s like a cigarette quitter who is about to light his second cigarette of the day. It’s like asking for that same karaoke bargirl you’d kissed at the KTV for the second time. By the time reason & reluctance intervene, the flesh of the moment will have been soiled. The sparks of the campfire from the very first night have left a bitter taste in my mouth. In the darkness of dawn I hear immigrants noisily unlocking a door. The snag wagon screeches. Wherever I am I hear the snag wagon screech. Even on a bunk bed of a low-budget Manhattan hotel where I spent a night or two, I heard the snag wagon yelp. Dragonflies perch on the snags. The wagon wheels leave an indelible rut of history on a wet path. The sound of a stranger unlocking a metal folding door makes you tense. The sound of the metal door clashing with your soul seeps into your bone marrow. The marrow that will be sucked up by a hyena. Birthplace is the place where flowers of snags blossom. The scent of snags gets her toe brusied when it was caught in the metal folding door. Cars trying to steer-clear of the snag wagon on the motorway end up in a pile-up. Ghosts proliferate on the motorway. So do ghost-driven snag wagons. Ghosts who look like roots from uprooted plants remain at the birthplace. They have sown their seeds by spitting along the snag wagon path. Later they will light their second cigarettes in order to ward off dragonflies, & cure the bitter taste in their mouth.