Days move like the electric poles near the railway tracks. Sometimes, they move like the edges of the sleeper slab too- either single, hard to catch but too hard not to notice or hard to notice and even harder to catch. Mind goes numb at that speed and wraps itself around the safety of the past.

Clearing the cobwebs,
Scrubbing the hardened stain of oil,
I wonder- is it this hard to get you off?