Best Commute Poems
Go,
go,
go.
Stop.
Turn,
go,
stop.
Turn,
go,
stop.
Go,
go,
go.
Stop.
I commute down the highway quite early each morn:
South toward the seashore, days work to be done.
Half way to the ocean, traveling north through the sky;
A large flock of sea gulls, passes me by.
They too have their work load cut out for the day:
At the nearest large land-fill, on their ravenous way.
Traveling ever far inland away from the sea:
They will spend the day scouring town dumps for debris.
The hours pass slowly: comes the end of my day,
I drive the same highway to a home far away.
I see in the distance flying back to the shore;
The same flock of seagulls, but hungry no more.
I can never help smile when I meet them again,
These feathered shoplifters, heading where I have been.
Life's very well ordered for these ‘foul’ of the sea,
Who each day earn a living, stealing smelly debris.
Dusk finds them at shore line with short, squawk filled flights,
They will then disappear to where gulls go at night.
And with a new morning; I will greet them once more:
On their way to those landfills, from their home at the shore.
I worked for Boeing when I first met Fred
Liked him the instant he called me “brain dead”
We were both part of the same office mob
Both engineers fairly new on the job
I was single then, but didn’t last long
Got married and then my Corvette was gone
Being married soon my budget was tight
When Fred said, “Let’s car pool”; I said, “Alright”
Fred drove first on our initial commute
The car he was in, was tiny and cute
“It’s a Vespa”, he said, “easy on gas”
I’m thinking, “In a wreck, I’ll lose my ass!”
The engine inside was like a lawnmower
A small two stoker, but still was a goer
It wasn’t long before carpooling died
Fred could drive so cheap, all I did was ride
What Fred charged was ridiculously small
And on every commute we had a ball
Other commuters would stare at the car
Till finally I said, “This has gone too far”
If someone stared, we’d talk about their car
Really loud, so they’d hear something bazaar
It was always a put down of some kind
We got really good at it over time
Every trip to work and back, we had fun
Except an earthquake hit while on one run
Seeing telephone poles sway to and fro
Just wasn’t my bag, I want you to know
From his house to mine, wasn’t very far
I played the uke and Fred played guitar
We’d get together; play and sing a song
Our friendship today is still very strong
Just as we are close friends, so are our wives
We’ll be that way for the rest of our lives
Space between triglyphs in a Doric frieze?
If you see Fred, ask for an answer please!
(I’d sooner Lipton!)
The commute
The daily commute it's so depressing
Not getting a seat is so distressing
Standing here heart racing proud
I only wish it would beat aloud
So people could hear the strain it makes
The mound of energy standing takes
To just be me to stand not fall
I stop my tears from being a bawl
Some days I get to that last seat
Thank goodness, a moment to rest tired feet
As I journey, joints crack and pop
All the way to my last stop
Heads bowed down in phones and papers
Know one cares of my dramatic capers
As one by one discs fall from strain
When will I give up this bloody train?
‘The commute’ – by Victoria Payne
Daily drive fraught with stress
One wrong move what a mess
Looking left, looking right
Praying neither will bring fright
All seems clear, so off we go
Straight and fast, avoiding foe
All strapped in and knuckles white
Let him pass! Avoid the fight
Can't make trouble, no friend is near
Don't you know we're not wanted here?
Was that a shot? Stoke the Fire!
Not today it was just a tire
Five miles more, we're almost there
Pulse is up, but no worse for wear
We made it here, we passed the test
I sure am glad I wore my vest
What we'll do to make a buck
Same tomorrow, wish us luck
3 June 03
Today,
The beggar woman on the corner held a sign that said:
"Dance Teacher, laid off, anything helps."
And in the 60 seconds my car sputtered indignantly beside her,
I watched the feral lines in her face
I imagined her skin was soft, and unobtrusively without confession
Swaddled in a thin gray sweater,
I romanticize,
That she threw this on, as she walked into the sharp Autumn air
Veiled in a gleaming burst of creativity.
Her body warm from her feet dragging across the floor
To the songs I secretly like
I ponder shamefully
How many pliés, and twirls and graceful arches with her arms
were made before tripping onto this corner?
Gossiping mouths of freeway on-ramps
That become our living rooms, kitchens and halls.
I love her anyway
When spectators throw dollar bills instead of roses
Out of cocoons
that smell of white mochas
It wasn't so bad this morning
But I arrived an hour early
If I'd left later—
even a few minutes?
Only the clock will tell
After all
It's only my first time
the bridge is biggest
when large rain comes down to kill
wet wheels wishing life
It’s
not just
the commute
that I dislike; it’s
more about the fact
that it keeps on bringing
me to work every single day
The winter darkness falls before the day
Has run its course, long ere the eyes of those
Who labor seek surcease from weariness.
The home-bound traffic winds its halting way
Beneath the moon-bound Evening Star and slows—
A mess.
And so I sit with promises to keep,
Ensnarled within a concrete wilderness
As news and music streams from radios.
At last the exit home—to eat, to sleep,
And rest.
drive to work in snow
so much fun to cuss and spit
a hater by force
x number of hours from
a to b, and while certainly it can always be worse,
it could always be better---
the fact remains that there are mother****ers in the cities
who don’t have to get up early & jump in their cars
to get on the freeway & haul ass
while dealing with the frustrations of every moron that was able to get a driver’s license,
there are people in the cities who walk to work,
who hail a cab &
yes, though there are those that stuff themselves into a small tin box in a
sequence of small tin boxes &
glide slowly in the heat, underground, stopping every 100 feet or so…
the commute doesn’t warrant such thoughts that might illuminate the commute itself.
the commute is time spent in a personal cell
drifting above the asphalt, pondering all the happenings of the day before,
of the night before,
witnessing the weather, whatever it might be,
treating you like its own little pet teddy bear
to throw around in its teeth,
like a dog that just got out of the pound
getting that first real bone again
grrrrrrrrrrrrr---
and the morning coffee on the way
just doesn’t do it,
and the donut or the bagel or the cigarette or the hashish
just doesn’t do it---
it seems no matter what can be done in that time spent in the car,
the commute steals time that could’ve been spent elsewhere.
might think that it is the 21st century &
the fact that they don’t have flying cars or the ability to “beam me up, scotty,”
just pisses the **** out of you,
might think that oral sex would improve the ride if you had cruise control,
sure,
might think that this routine is
killing you, and that the commute itself represents the inability to make what you really want in life to be your own, quicker---
might think that today is the day to step on the gas, make a quick withdrawal at the bank &
turn your back on all that was,
making only room for what lies ahead.
The train was stuck;
The tracks were icy.
Weather cold;
Conditions dicey.
Stops and starts
Made travel slow.
Patience was
The way to go.
Home at last,
Relieved but spent
And wond'ring where
The hours went.
Commute
I saw her reflection in the train window on my commute home today
Peering, gazing, thinking she can't see my stare
A glance towards the glass and I've been caught
Quickly pretend to look right through as if the tunnel wall interests me
But the cables and the clips cause me to think how they all got there
Gangs of workers in the night time
A momentary thought I look again but she's gone
A stop I don't remember
Perhaps she wasn't ever there
I continue home, thinking random thoughts
Autopilot travel, can't remember how I got here
Disembarking walking thinking
Home
Eavesdrop into my ear the sweet nectar that I hear
Who did what to whom? I need to know how this ends
It fulfils me
I'll just sit and listen, don't you worry for I wont intrude
I hear subtle tones of welcoming for which you elude to
I'll steal your stories as I steal glances
Hoarding them
I work alone though others are in on it too
An audible tabloid for all to hear
Hear ye hear ye
I hear you and so can this whole subway