Hands fly.
They buzz in pretty little circles,
round and round.
The circumferential numerals
countlessly winding down days.
Hands spinning away years.

Seems their speed is dependent,
relative to routine.

Slip into a well-grooved track of mundanity
and watch the wheel run.

Dash in a bit of change, though,
and feel it slow a bit.
Take a step out of that path worn into the floor.
Face a new direction, argue with your compass.

Slow it all down.

Slow life down
to a sober crawl,
stand face to face with
that clock on the wall.

Another shirt sacrificed
to the grease-stain God.

Metal shavings glistening
in my beard,
danger tinsel.

Sparks emanating
from my aching grip,
I'm abrasive.

Eyes a-squint,
in lieu of
safety glasses.

Blood blister.

Hands rended
with numerous
nicks and cuts
all in various
states of healing.

Torn jeans,
blackened knees.

Another shirt
marked with grease.

Old Carolina Loggers
with run-down heels.

This outfit speaks,
I needn't say a thing.

Just a glance and
you know exactly
what makes me,
me.

This is the last time
I ever mistake tail lights
for the sunset.

Take a minute,
a breather,
a respite.

You lead me
quite well,
my friend,

but

I'll never be caught dead
treading water
in your wake again.

Blue and chartreuse.

Painted true.

Doused in epinephrine.

Ignited by you.