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