I want to see you here.
I want to hear you there.
But I won’t give a hoot
if you don’t get a hoot
from the train as it cumbersomely
grewls through the reek and smog
of the trackman’s lot to the fixer
called the Web of Light on the deck
of sands called the writer and his task.
It will be then and not
the one who is and the one
who isn’t. But there we be
the wronged and the writer,
the wrecked and the rumbled.
For the work has not been done
‘til the went-for-it have been told to
For it is about time
they all see to it that there is
a wrong-ford time and a right-time
of blessings and curdling speed
about the reckless endeavour
called the track
COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2017