Thisorder

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