poem

 Drive

Driving is just like living.

Strangers, sheltered in steel

External shells, barely aware

Of one another, following rules

And decorum, getting to where

We all think we need to go.

We’re all conscious of the red light

The orange cones, the yield signs,

The turn-on-green arrow.

This isn’t about mindless activity,

The soulless emptiness of modern life,

Although I can certainly see how 

Such thoughts could arise.

What if there were no roads at all.

Each of us bogged down in mud,

Stuck staring at phones

Waiting for a tow.

Or worse, what if the world 

Was completely paved,

An expansive parking lot

Of a universal store

And we had to nose

Our cars slow, ever so slowly,

Through the honking, tire squealing

Vastness of tar and metal.

You never know when a jackass

Would try to cut across the hashed 

Asphalt grid in a bid to escape.

This is what we have,

What we’ve agreed to.

It could be worse.

It isn’t chaos.

But it isn’t particularly fun.

I laugh when I see 

A guy chuck his fast food

Remnants out the window.

I smile when I watch 

The curls of a singing 

Middle aged mom

Bob like a pom-pom.

I stare too long

And they always

Sense it and shoot

A glance in my direction

But our eyes never connect

Because I've already

Averted my gaze back

To the median yellow lines

And the sign ahead 

Prodding me to merge right,

To slow down,

Not immediately,

But gradually, as soon

As suitable space opens up.

2/22/21