Out Like a Lamb

Terminal

I politely ask of Time
to please slow down, try to relax

         I need to get from A to B
         the tram is crammed
         with moving molecules who
         pilgrimage toward risings
         that are never guaranteed

Time says
lady you are on your own

At the gate the plane is CLOSED
some stupid standby in my seat

         I am banished to a longer line
         among my fellow fucked.
         Time, now laughing outright
         shuffles forth as if impaired
         or just to ridicule my former plea.


note ▼

April 8—Delay (any kind)