Oil Can, Oil Can

Tin_Woodman

I settle into the seat
and fumble for the key.
Maybe it’s an age thing,
maybe I just don’t want to
go there today.
With a twist of the wrist,
off I go, turning, speeding,
stopping on the way
to wherever I’m going.
It doesn’t matter yet,
this machine’s just warming up.

Ugh, I’ve hit at a red light
and have to decide if I go
straight, left, right or
start all over again.

This is how it is now
as I crank out these trips of
Imagination. My back aches,
the pen cramps in my hand,
the Keurig calls my consciousness
from the kitchen, taking my
conscience’s eye off
the 1000-word road I’m driven
to drive this morning.
Maybe one more cup and then
I’ll finish this chapter.
I’m not a machine, you know.

Poem #3A of Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo, based on Writers Digest’s prompt for a Machine poem.

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2 thoughts on “Oil Can, Oil Can

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