Fifteen Seconds Between Things

Strangest days are the ones laid
Out like this: steps go somewhere and everybody's in a hurry
To take them. Me, I'm dragged down to a halt
With the current split around me: a boiling hydraulic
Of all the things people do and say.
I catch myself with my ear bent to the sussurus
Of some conversation that doesn't belong to me,
And it sounds like stolen silk ripped down from the line.
It must be better; they seem
So content. Nothing to do for the
Shudderstop lockstep I think I keep noticing.
They don't think they're doing it, but
They are. None of that matters when the big engine
Turns those gyros fast and clean
And serves up everything normal and sweet.
Which must be better. Must be right.

©2008 Timothy W Holland