I usually write a poem, set it aside for a couple months, come back to it, mess with it, set it aside, and repeat the process until it is done. Not today. Here is one hot off the press. Heard the first line uttered by a co-worker and felt the poem in the words. So, this is definitely draft level.
Another week of my life over
in jest just office banter.
My week in review,
ticket in hand at some figurative station
waiting for conveyance. Some
mover and shaker outside, that motion
and momentum in fate press and prod
all aboard, to arrive once again
at the same station
in another place,
where time will buy another ticket
as I wait, watch, and want.
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