Commute

Tarmac crackles under tyres,

a beat that plays along

to the radio, songs of now

creating a disjoint. Songs

of now that reflect a past,

passed down. Refract the

truth of what happened.

Retract the sharper edges.

Retrace the steps,

reflects, deflects, selects

a different station.

Nearly there.

This world is mine within

these tin walls. At pace

the outside blurs and

whirring engines break

the monotony of the birds

incessant tweeting.

Trees set free by motion.

Grass given over to mud.

Construction creating progression.

No regression to our nature.