by Nick Gisburne
The vessel senses where it should have been
Before the spine of space refused to move
Her fingers flash so quickly on the screen
That every tortured turn is hammered smooth
The problem is, as always, humanoid
A violation in the central stream
The wreckage is deflected and destroyed
But she, impatient, banks beyond the beam
Vibrating to a dangerous degree
The quantum engine’s bulk begins to glow
She cuts the power, cursing, and can see
The tide of time, now infinitely slow
The universe conspires to make her late
Another Tuesday traffic jam to hate
