The scariest day of all,
a Sunday,
the day before returning to the norm.
The cattle led bustle
of common day work,
where cogs talk about revolving
less, their oiled gears smoothing
out constant turning
as nubs wear.

An epilogue to freedom,
finality repeating this dance,
steps ingrained,
fancy is the footwork
that takes them past wanted junctions,
this ride endures,
these replacements infinite,
the machine insists.