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.