Traffic
Metal and plastic pods
Hurtle along the brown or gray streaks
Between the craggy rock faces
Exposed by blast and machine.
Living beings with transparent blinders
Only looking completely sideways
Just before the final turn
That leads to the residential womb.
Stopped at traffic signals
They pretend to be bored
Or interested in the oncoming lane
That is stopped too.
But they sneak peeks to the sides
Where undeserving pods
Are allowed to pursue their goals
At defiant cross-purposes,
And often into the silver rectangles
That permit seeing where they’ve been
And who is forced
To sniff up their tailpipe.
The untrained young
And those with bold hearts
Look at those along side
And think of switching cars.
albi
Copyright, 2002