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routine was the theme, he'd wake up and...wash and pour himself into uniform |
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something he hadn't imagined being... |
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as the merging traffic passed, he found himself staring, down, at his own hands.. |
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not remembering the change, not recalling the plan, was it...? |
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he was okay, but wondering about wandering |
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was it age? by consequence? or was he moved by sleight of hand? |
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mondays were made to fall, lost on a road he knew by heart |
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it was like a book he read in his sleep, endlessly... |
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sometimes he hid in his radio, watching others pull into their homes |
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while he was drifting... |
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on a line, of his own, off the line, on the side |
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by the by, as dirt turned to sand, as if moved by sleight of hand |
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when he reached the shore of his clip-on world |
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he resurfaced to the norm |
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organized his few things, his coat and keys... |
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any new realizations would have to wait til he had more time, more time... |
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time to dream, to himself |
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he waves goodbye, to himself |
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i'll see you on the other side... |
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another man...moved by sleight of hand... |
