THE FINISH LINE IS TO THE SWIFT

THE FINISH LINE IS TO THE SWIFT

The world is callous, dark and cruel
to a man who can’t keep pace.

The road ragers hot on my bumper,
violently on my case.

Eyes flashing angrily in my rear view,
reproachful voices taunt me.

My days of glory in the dust,
childhood trophies haunt me.

The finish line is to the swift, so where am I to go?

How long until I find my place,
away from the life of the shadows?

To do a thing and do it fast
is the newfound measure of a man,

The tortoise and the terrapin have not a leg on which to stand.

Businessmen with mobile phones
that fit in the palm like a dime,
eat their lunches at their desks to buy a little time.

Like Mario Andretti, their premium is on speed,
their engines built on peptic ulcers,
swimming in their greed.

Meanwhile the antiquated earth
revolves with calm around the sun,
out of sync with modern man
and his strange, misguided wisdom.

The finish line is to the swift,
their feet held to the fire,

My car has hit the jersey wall
and blown its last good tire.

The world is callous, swift and dumb,
mercy has grown cold and rare.

The road ragers seethe and rev their engines,
middle fingers in the air.

-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED