writing (and driving)

i am writing

the greatest poem

of the century. on my way

to work. in the traffic. stop.

driving in my green

compact. go. praying

for red lights. and RR blinkers

and someone else’s fender-bender.

stop. wait. go.

when i am through

Shakespeare will sigh

and touch his breast,

marvel at my

creativity and cleverness.

 

damn the horn

blaring at me.
flip me a bird. lost the

pencil. ahh, tail lights. stop.

lights. what’s so great

about punctuality? trucker, chef,

teacher, gas attendant, parole

officer, clerk. if you’re late, does the souffle

fall? the students

fail? the convict

go
free? take a breath. relax.

what do you lose

if you just

let me

finish?

damn. i am here.

work.

i am late.

again. and arriving

without a poem.

Published by moontidepress.com