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From the Grill of Gare du Nord,
A slow and grumbling accelleration
On a wide and banking curve
At last eXhales me from the inner city,
And in Time my caravan of racing thoughts
Clatters breezily past blinking amber lights,
Ignoring their endless appeal
For cautious slowdown
Through track and signal maintenance crews
Who struggle to keep the rails precisely paraLLel
And the ride reliably safe.
But a promise is a promise, Fairy,
And so I huff and hoof to arrive on schedule
At my terminal stop near the outer edge of
Someplace barely legal.
