Production Line

I could have been somebody, somewhere,

A street performer dancing on the
corner for images of the monarch,

Preferably in silvers.

Or a writer, with aspirations of
tangling subjects in a microcosm.
Exuviated are their troubles.

A traveller watching the world
from the tranquil banks of the
Ganges,
Love's gentle viola playing
on in my head.

Instead i sit on the chair
with the missing screw,
Sipping at lukewarm tea,
Listening to the infiltrating
hum-drum of the
conveyer belt
as it sends
another
batch
to
be
checked.