Traffic Jam
cars hunker,
such orderly rubble,
bricks from a shattered biome.
surely this is progress,
viewed through a cookie-cutter,
laid in strips to cube a valley’s waist--
and so the city gets cinched,
until the night-smog looms,
cowing the sun to slouch under crimson.
then the many windshields
gleam as if to gasp,
painted by the tarnish of such uncertain blood:
has someone or something
been murdered? row after row,
line after line, lane upon lane,
do they wonder?
could it be, somewhere,
deep within the miles
of the arteries composed of cars
that the hidden, tired, trapped people,
just for a moment,
know?
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