Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Poem 6: The Traffic Herd

The heaving crawl of mechanical beasts,
With drivers headed north, south, west, and east.
They each move along on their painted paths,
Each trying to avoid the other's wrath.

While making sure there are no cops around
They attempt to gain the slightest of ground.
With movements judged by the rest of the herd,
Some daring, crazy, or just plain absurd.

All detours are jammed. All exits a mess.
Finding the fast lane is anyone's guess.
When lights come flashing, they can't help but curse.
They hope there's no wreck, that'd make things much worse.

With fingers in air and honks of the horn,
With desperate swerves and patience all worn,
They're all on their way as slow as can be.
It's home that they're headed, from work they flee.


  1. Jen Said:


Leave a Reply

Submit Comment