There's a groove in the floor
I slip into it each morning
I slide on cold steel casters
Driven by a low-rumbling steam
Pushed through my routines.

It goes down the stairs
And into the shower
And loops around to the mailbox
And past the fridge.

Sometimes there are a few splinters
Sometimes it's polished smooth
And it feels effortless to move along

I dream that the groove will lead out
Into the deep green forest
And crest upon a granite cliff
Where the vista over patchwork fields
And under rain-laden clouds piled high
Is opened up before me.

But it passes the table
And the TV
And the couch.

Next time it brings me to the mailbox
I'm going to make my big break.