The elevator doesn’t come,
the plane remains at the gate,
the doctor is double-booked,
and the customer representative hides behind Muzak.
Every moment is Chinese water torture,
an incessant drip of seconds into a past
that runs downhill into soil
growing ulcerous weeds and regret.
The great mandala is stuck.
the server down at pagoda.com.
Taking the stairs, Wordsworth mumbles
“Getting and spending—I told you so.”
Gridlocked, I take an exit ramp to nowhere.
Trees eye me with curiosity
as four lanes taper to two.
Miles later, a farmer’s tractor slices hay.
The pistons shut down on a dusty road,
talk radio reduced to static.
The mandala creaks as creation finally resumes.
A large eye opens, watching,
waiting to see what I will do next.