booking in early again.

my fervent prayer that time slows to a crawl
in this window of opportunity
is like drying sweat in the heat of the sun.

serendipity, life at its crossroads,
poetic incoherence and that damnable thing
(self-indulgence) tell me this:

oh you poor romantically inclined sod it is
most unfair for you to be caught
rock-and-hard-placelike, rigid as if dead

in this Alcatraz of the mind.
of course, by the time i conclude with a
literary analysis of that moment

my time would have passed.