Traffic Jam
cars hunker,
such orderly rubble,
bricks from a shattered,
rebuilt childhood.
surely this is progress
viewed through a cookie-cutter
and laid in strips
to cube a valley’s waist.
so the city gets cinched
until smog glooms,
cowing a sun that slouches
under crimson.
the windshields gleam,
shocked by this uncertain blood—
have they been strangled?
row after row, line after line of them,
for just a moment
the arteries of a heart revelation-struck,
once great.
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