Captured in the stop n' go rhythm of yet another approaching week's end

The wored-on gentleman answers his mirror-

Re and rewriting the power game that he'd played in '88

When he'd been voice-stripped and eye-soaked;

He does his best acting in the brake lights

As his very grounded audience rolls their eyes in synch with the tire turns-

The messy pen talk's just a character flaw

To the programmed hand-cautious cross walkers

(but pencils do a nice disappearing act)

It's the line that separates the sky from the ground

And while the formulated spend their free time rinsing paths into the dirt-

Some are only carried by the air...

Waking up to the back of the clock-

Do the daily hand-search dance

And disconnect the chord

Before another morning coats the floor;

We float across each day and sometimes lose our cushioned shoes-

Backstepping to the bedroom door for more disposable paper wheels

She walks with the sound of jangling wrong keys

In and out of each bus' entrance just before

Requesting: a window by a cold seat

The stars highlight her cooling accomplishment for her anti-eyes

And still...

She hasn't quite landed yet-

She's waiting for the ground to pull her down

(though heavy hands can't be blamed for concave doorknobs)

It's the line that divides the cars at war'

And while the picture-framed don't mind memorizing the right lane-

Some would rather interweave the spaces in between...

Waking up to the back of the clock-

Do the daily hand-search dance

And disconnect the chord

Before another morning coats the floor;

We float across each day and sometimes lose our cushioned shoes-

Backstepping to the bedroom door for more disposable paper wheels