A sack of flesh and bones
controls a machine at a weight
of two tons, (including the sack,
two tons, one hundred and fifty eight
and a half pounds) moving
in spite of all the friction,
at a velocity that can almost
guarantee a different kind of trip
if circumstances, (a bump, a thought,
indigestion, another sack)
cause the mind to shift its own gears
into uncontrollable dimensions.
It’s almost always uncontrollable.
Although somehow that thin blade
between almost and always allows
the sack’s muscles to react
and lets the undeserving mind
on borrowed time.