Strange Glue

Sometimes I wonder when I wake
If the world ended while I dreamed
Leaving me in a wild and errant cosmos
That might be nice.

I am a Regular Guy
In a regular world of rectangles
And traffic circles, diverging diamonds
And lights that semaphore
Stop and go.
I know.
White lines, yellow signs
All the same
And tame.

But what if brains did float in space?
If galleons could become stars
And sisters constellations?
What if kings might be born in frog ponds
And court wizard be a stately occupation?
What if we did live on a disc
And we only found
Turtles
   all the way down,
Would it make that much difference
In the things that come round?

Afraid not.

In the end there would be
Regular Guys In Shining Armor
Dreaming of being me.

(Space pirates who sing of strawberry fields
 symbolize a sad symptom of obsessive symmetry)

God above all leaves us yearning
A potted pilgrim is a bore, and more.
Like Zeno, zeroes and ones
Are a running pun
Of analog movement,
In a most convincing disguise,
Aping a double-oh seven retirement party
At the Tiffany Case Home for Clichéd Touchés.

So we easily miss the point,
Pass the wrong test,
Guess the wrong guest,
Only to find our dungeons drag on
In a cubic sphere where right angles grow wild.

For now
I am going to go drive
Around the square.