A sweep of grey concrete opens before you
Cresting, dipping, turning in to the
hard line of the commute – coloured steel
hues melding into a slow line of duty,
the flow of morning conformity.
Commute, comply, coexist, why not?
You have your foot on the accelerator
as the distant light turns from green
to amber –
closer than you think?
– you have your foot on the accelerator
as the nearing light turns from green
to amber, you are the pilot on automatic
who for a second’s moment sees impulse
as choice whilst choice becomes impulse
though who knows the Truth of it anyway?
Decisions are made, one’s own life
obtusely held within one’s own capable hands,
and the foot pauses or presses,
movement halts or flies – almost on a whim
As if nothing drove it. As though it were random.
You continue, Commuter – a momentary
annoyance for those paused unwittingly
or a heartbeat’s fear for those in your way.
Remind them: memento mori. It’s good
for the soul to de-commute for a bit.
Cease to coexist. Detach.
Be a Good Citizen of the Road
but don’t lack imagination –
when all’s said and done it’s what we have left to work with.
For now, you are the god of the road.
Decisions and choices are made by those who lead.
Conformity may be your creed but Impulse is your devil,
Choice remains your elusive Holy Ghost, and the
poet racks up another few lines no matter what.
Commuters reach their point, beyond warm concrete
which now rests a while, it doesn’t care either way.
The heart beats.
Zand, 8thJune 2018