The car swerved around
Driving in reverse up a slope
bushes and curb waving moving
swing the sterring wheel
Will I drive forward now?
Time's face all cringy
shouting about how late we are
The road inclines abruptly
The foot pushes forward
the car sucks at the accelerator
gnashing and hustling the ashphalt
Will we make it to the tour?
Inside the car a silent friction
Not all is free to be said
Unease seems to contaminate us
from the choppy motor's rise and fall
Since when did living become a question
Of polite punctuality
Yet time seems as a God by itself
A reciprocal one with pedantic rules
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