the driver of the daily process
sits in the back of the cab of mind
or the limo of intentions
and calls out directional details, block by block
the driver, though the same person as I
is compartmentalized to the task at hand
my inner voices tantalize with updates
and remembrances of circumstance or need
there is the blow-by of non-relevance
in landscape and people in the surround
they could all be manikins and props to the cause
but the driver has mission as foremost
even though the juggle of private priorities
inwardly continues as background cross-talk chatter
time is of the essence or maybe as the sequence
it could be a get-there or a be-there
or even a timing-wear, of course, for show
it could all be the hell-bent of accomplishment
it could be the list-maker’s dream day-job
or it could be all for show, gala or mandatory
the dirge of it all, is as if ongoing and procedural
who, in each of us, is that driver?
who calls the shots and makes deliveries?
lots of times I’m in that vehicle
but I am not really the driver
and that’s when I begin to wonder
out loud internal to me
but not a peep otherwise
who is that driver of me
in my daily process? . . .
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