Trimming

Across the sprawling landscape
stretch those asphalt ribbons
tying the endless mazes of cities
with their traffic bows.

Speeding along that concrete trimming
chasing the promises of presents
lying somewhere at the place
where the decorations end.

Getting lost on that black thread
while the mind goes to a party,
wishing this commute
had more cake than gas.

If not for those holes and ruts
might never get shook from that dream,
so go back to rolling along that strip
taking your future for a ride,
always searching for a pair of scissors
that might cut this band
over each day.

But that only happens on Christmas morn
and on birthdays,
when you get to stop merely imagining
being free from the adornment
of what life’s gift wrapper
created as your box.