Richard Thomas | + Follow Poet |
Quatrain | + Fav Poem | Comment | Email | Print |

Highway Wars

It's closing time, I'm sad to say.
The clock insists it's after five.
Now comes the hardest part of day,
The long, infernal homeward drive.

I leave my job and peace behind
And hit the highway as before,
To traffic tie-ups I'm resigned.
I'm off to fight uncivil war.

A dozen blocks and there it lurks,
The dreaded freeway entrance turn.
I join again familiar jerks
Whose road behavior makes me burn.

I choose the right lane for a while.
It's slower, but it lessens stress.
I vow today to wave and smile
At fools and foes and rage suppress.

They're weaving in and out of lanes,
The same old restless maniacs.
A bunch of dolts whose addled brains
Imagine these are NASCAR tracks.

The flow is moving fairly well
Until I spy a traffic jam,
An altar scene from highway hell
And I'm the sacrificial lamb.

The guy behind me's in a rush,
A honking dunce whose mood is sour.
Most probably a chronic lush
Who's mad at missing happy hour.

But right in front's the slowest poke
Who ever sat behind a wheel.
It's known the posted speed's a joke,
But this poor snail believes it's real.

The sluggish traffic further slows.
I spot a wreck and loudly curse.
Some feeble geezer, I suppose,
Or reckless teen has made things worse.

Then passing on my left's a dame
Whose eyes are down, not on the road.
"I was not texting," she will claim
When cars collide and then are towed.

Good grief!  The traffic's merging right.
Of all the times to fix the road.
Why can't those yahoos work at night?
Much more of this and I'll explode!

And adding to the mammoth mess,
My air conditioner is broke.
I'm roasting, bored, and in distress
And badly need some weed to smoke.

I spy a madman on my tail
And feel an urge to slam my brakes.
We'd smash, but he'd be hauled to jail
If I possessed the guts it takes.

I'm tired and no more give a hoot.
I swerve into the passing lane
Prepared with finger to salute
Should cut-off drivers dare complain.

Impatient, hot, and feeling foul,
With pedal floored, I pick up speed.
Until I hear a siren's howl,
And stopped by cops, I guilty plead.

I'm home.  The long ordeal is done.
I'm weary, sweaty, sore, and stink.
Another costly gauntlet run.
I need a hug and stiffened drink.

I often wish I'd lose my job.
Then happily at home I'd stay.
I'd face no more that rush hour mob
And live on unemployment pay.

Copyright © Richard Thomas | Year Posted 2018

Please Login to post a comment

Jesse Rowe Date: 8/30/2018 8:18:00 PM What a finely tuned take on the woes of traffic. Superb from start to finish! I did notice the good grief stanza didn't follow the rhyme scheme of the rest of the poem, not sure if that was intentional. Regardless, an utter joy to read. Login to Reply Richard Thomas Date: 8/30/2018 9:12:00 PM Thank you very much for your very kind review and for pointing out my slip up. I've corrected that stanza now.