The breaking of the tape
When I cross the line,
I'll rest from my exertions,
find shelter from the weather -
so they tell me. I would fly like the wind
but I'm pulling like the others,
a crudely built, two-wheeled cart -
accumulations that tell the story
of my journey, pausing repeatedly
to sort out the merchandise;
remind myself who I am.
Abandon this cart and I would soon
cross the line into a territory
Rather than that, I cling for now
to my only home-on-wheels
though it veers and bogs,
falsely identifies me,
egregiously hampers my way
toward the breaking of the tape, the rest,
the refuge, the unknown realm and reward.
O child of God, there's nowhere to go; nowhere
to get to; nowhere to run; nowhere to hide.