spinning their wheels,
clocks turn young to old.
belying promises made in haste,
nitty-gritty do’s and don’ts close the day.
looking with pride, and wonder,
at what you’ve done.
eyes on tomorrow even in the black of sleep.
hoisting blankets over exhausted ideas.
arms and legs lie in wait to go again,
into the arena of trains and boats and airplanes,
cars and carts and bicycles.
while the mind would rather rest it’s bones
on the soft, sweet pillow
so open to your touch.