I guess
I’m just
impatient
about everything.
the old lady driving.
the day of the week.
the bottom of my
coffee cup.
I’ve got this fast machine
with a gas pedal
and another machine
to give instant answers
and between the two
there’s this sorry mind
which can’t decide
if it is passing
or being passed.
so little tempers
crawl me like ants
and there’s another
line
for the register.
somehow fast
is never fast enough
when it’s all
going nowhere.