Grinding along its age-old axis which knows of approaching death,
The world pivots on a baby’s breath.
The Rock beholds his baby as a plinth,
Its lungs lamenting the loss of a leisurely labyrinth.
Highwaymen hit the open road in rattling carriages,
Bibbed and drooling with mouths welcoming meat wedges.

In the mind’s meandering pathway
And the incubator cot’s cold corridors,
I sought to take away
Routine’s rasp and all of its bores.
No toy to be found. The whirling wheels left vapors
On highway tracks, chafing the skin of tarmac like sandpaper.

Only as the Old Bull lifted me from my minute home
And took me for a restful roam
Did I see the tempting toy in Guy’s den.
Now ground to a refueling halt, I skated to the highwaymen.