Had I been driven,
Not by someone I nearly
met,
By a phone call
specifying,
A pre-arranged lack of
defying,
Get in the car at
whatever hour,
Going to a place I have
already chosen,
My freedom in stasis,
it stands frozen,
Waiting for the crack
to shatter it and shower
Hundreds of pieces,
hundreds of days,
Rules unbroken that
have now
Wasted away, like thorny tears on my face, hour after hour -
I would have been
given,
At least some vague
reason,
To still be the same,
after
So many seasons.
And in that car,
In that passenger seat,
In which of course, I
would fasten my belt,
Strap myself to my
habitual retreat,
The same safety which
I've always felt,
Or rather, pretended to
feel,
As there has been some
ground beneath my feet,
Although it is always
moving, unlike
My rooted legs, proving
That the straps are
real.
I would pass by roads
Which I had already
looked for,
And I would point to
them,
And in that same bright
baritone explore,
How I thought, that the
buildings
Seemed perhaps taller,
Then realising that I
had taught myself
To see that they had once been smaller,
And that there was no
change,
My own construct, my
home,
The contents
re-arranged, at most
A timid shuffling
forced on the décor,
And all this time
wheels turn on the road,
And all this time heels
burn on the floor,
And all this time is
too much to unload,
Everything is after,
but I am still before.
