No games at Jamaica

My goal now
To cheat myself
Valuable time
Cut deep into poetry hour
Making it poetry eighteen minutes
Or a poetry twenty
Solid

To play silly word games
Every morning
Hoping to be done
By the time we reach Jamaica Station
So as to stab a blade into poetry
Wiggle it around a little
For the mere pleasure
Of watching it squirm
Boring boring poetry
Rote language set to rhythm

Then an occasional blast of fresh air
From the front window
Carrying the barrel-crusted sound of the horn
Cutting through the fog
Cutting into traffic
As if to say
This Is For Your Own Good
This iron activist is making up lost time
Never lost, really
Re-appropriated
And, appropriately so
That time was borrowed
And must be placed back
Gently
Before no one is the wiser

A squeamish bunch
Us track folk
Can't tolerate eyes
Tinted coverings for comfort
An unspoken limit as to how long we transfix
Then the things that have too many eyes
All of which makes just staying on track
A complicated pile of malarkey
There is also a case to be made
For games
--
5.22.13