The train lurches forward and my time is running out,
The seats are numbing, under the lows ceilings I have to crouch.
As the country speeds by in a grey and green blur,
wether i'll ever make it i'm not sure.
We are nearing our destination, I see the nearing sign that says;
"Sulton Square, KS" as we pass, the gathering winds make it sway.
We grind to a jerking stop, and the passengers immediatly pour out.
Among the bustling crowd I hear a raspy shout.
It's my brother, waiting nervously with a throat full of hate,
He sounded almost sure, as he rung out "you are going to be late!"
We reached the spot and bolted, through masses more than we can count,
From the look on the secretary's face I was done for without a doubt.
But my co-workers were welcoming, although their greetings roughly fast-paced,
But this next event is really what determined my fate.
At my desk there sat a rather haggard-looking man,
His face wrinkled in cruel accusation, a paper slip in his hand.
And now as I walk sullenly home,
I have the comfort, that in this situation i'm not alone.
There are many who have experienced being late for their very last time,
And i'm sure to each of their poems, they have this similar rhyme.
And with eachother, after a few sips of scotch,
we discuss how we once had lived out lives in a pocket-watch.