It’s a hot day and the traffic’s stalled
and there’s no way of knowing
what the problem is
because the SUVs and the trucks up ahead
block my view.
I’m sweating.
Time’s not an issue
but I still feel like I’m late.
Can’t be a roadwork delay
because there are no cars
coming the other way.
Or some kind of sink hole.
The New England soil is as old and stable
as your grandmother.
I’m tapping on the driving wheel.
I’m angrily changing the station
from a song to sports talk and back again.
It’s a bad accident probably.
We’re all waiting for the cops
to cordon off the area,
rescue to show up,
drag the bodies, alive or dead,
out of the wreckage,
stretcher them to the ambulance.
It’s the free flow of traffic
that holds all this together.
It’s the ones who embrace the concept,
have faith that they’ll get where they’re going.
Then the unexpected happens.
Cracks appear in what we take for granted.
Transport becomes stoppage
and not knowing what the hell is going on.
We’re pinned down by tragedy
but it feels like ignorance.
Far behind me, someone blasts their horn.
This poem is quiet
but it too is a horn-blast.
