Routine was the theme
He'd wake up wash and pour himself into uniform
Something he hadn't imagined being
As the merging traffic passed he found himself staring down at his own hands
Not remembering the change
Not recalling the plan
Was it?
He was okay but wondering about wandering
Was it age? By consequence?
Or was he moved by sleight of hand?
Mondays were made to fall
Lost on a road he knew by heart
Wrapped in the same old walls
It was like a book he read in his sleep, endlessly
Sometimes he hid in the radio watching other pull into their homes
While he was drifting
On a line of his own
Off the line, on the side
Bye the by, as dirt turned to sand
As if moved by sleight of hand
When he reached the shore of his clip-on world
He resurfaced to the norm
Organized his few things, his coat and keys
Any new realizations would have to wait
Til he had more time, more time
Time to dream, to himself, he waves goodbye to his own self
See you on the other side
Another man, moved by sleight of hand
