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I tried to get ahead of Time,
hoping to catch my plane
while Time zipped, hooting, ahead of me
as if it had a brain.

Time sneered and veered without a license,
slicing through wind and rain.
I sped like a bionic cheetah,
but Time was a hurricane.

It didn’t have to tackle the hills
and the holes in the terrain.
(This dirt road was the only route,
a single pitted lane.)

My clunker clunked across the gravel,
Time winged like a whooping crane,
and the competition toward the finish
was heady as pink champagne.

I made it to the airport, though
security was insane,
the line appearing to stretch its fingers
from Bangor, Maine, to Spain.

Time, having neither duds nor luggage,
akin to legerdemain,
slipped past the queue, security,
the gate, to board the plane,

while I stood loitering like some mutt,
chihuahua or Great Dane.
And so I strolled across the road
and caught a tranquil train.