And I stood and looked and stared,
At the texture, lines, grooves and furrows.
The smooth parts as they embraced the rough.
Was this the canvas, the page, the instrument for a quartet?
Ok, so it’s meant to be poignant and meaningful and real.
I am supposed to see meaning, direction, cartography?
But it’s just weather and a beaten track.
That’s all that stands out, fatigue.
But you see fatigue is grand and splenduous and authentic.
It tells you that I’ve sat behind the wheel,
Or changed the tyres and oil,
So others can finish the race.
And yet I still just see lines and waste and questions.
Time, life, explanations and rationale,
The excuse to whom, of why the baton was dropped.
You see all of my batons are dropped at the second or third leg.
Next season, next season on the first meet,
There will be my name called again.
More leathered, smashed and crushed.
Prediction…to drop at second or third.
But this one year, maybe this or next.
You will sit, surprised, smacked and dashed.
As the line will be crossed as will my t’s.
My reflection with you, like my connection with you will be complete.
2019 COPYRIGHT PEDRO BATPOET