Carriage - I

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.