Anything past introspection is too much to bear–
cave-dwelling associations spring to mind, replete
with dank corners and piles of old books.
You hear it come from a minute away at about sixty miles an hour,
only to turn on a dime and squeal away with pie in its pants.
The dispatcher was a bit quick that time, but it’s no problem;
you’re used to it by now. Thought you didn’t have the time.
Squeeze it all into a sleeping bag sack and toss it over a bridge.
Who cares what the bridge covers? Let’s just call it a river, nosey.
WHARVED 