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City Driver
October 6, 2012
Honk! A car bolts past my shining fender.
Another, close by, scraps its door on mine,
so I lower my clean window to whine.
Then the traffic unjams, so I’m better.
Yet the holdup stays grim, an offender
to me, the tempered speeder, to the spine.
Radios are turned high, they’re loud turbines.
Heat, as well, lowers my calm, the defender.
Screech! A white balloon now engulfs my face
because metal snapped at my car’s soft ends.
I am still intact, yet I know I’m late.
Now. The lost appointment. I lost the race
against fast Time. Could my life still be mended?
I sorrow, in a worn bed, my missed dates.
© Doug T., Pittsford, NY
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