Waiting at the Free Throw Line

I am the shallow God pausing heaven

To check a message online.

I am the divorced magnate that

cannot stop earning to be served.

I am the balding talent scout

whose envy guides his pen's stroke.

All lettuce should be green or tan.

I am a mortal rubber band

stretched around infinity.

I am tired of the lying eyes

of nightclerks and valets.

I am an auto wreck of dismissal

overturned eighteen wheeler

buried in a drift.

We don't float on:

no toll, no passage.

The corner inverts itself

to put out your eye

if you gaze too long.

Habeas corpus; show me how

to find where my body ends.

I am trying to redirect the flows 

that are too natural for broadcast.

I am the declawed cat batting

at a flimsy mouse of yarn.

I am the damp-pitted night manager

whose footsteps ring out dread.

I am a battery

soon to freeze to the lakebed muck.

This is all to say:

Anyone can make a scene,

anyone with talent can make a song,

but all time left on the clock won't come off to see you win it.