Right now in my city, there are so many traffic jams, I’m cursing Sogea Satom for the way they are handling the whole construction project they are on. It will soon be over, but daily the anger born from stillness eats my insides like Edgar Poe’s Raven.
I still think they could do more, and that we the citizens could help them by being more civil and cooperating with the cops to reduce this frustration. Well, till we figure that out…it’s me, the car, and the clock.
The engine grumbles,
Rain washes away my joy
No birds are singing
Just unwanted ticks
Infecting the dashboard clock
Staring time away
The engine grumbles,
Rain plays with my heart, its toy
Seeding anger, more
And it grows to trees,
So tall the raven would nest
And infest with eggs
And laugh at my casket.
And electronics don’t tick
And my wheels don’t spin
So it’s just flashes
Of my life quickly passing
On the dashboard clock.
You’d think “Maybe” if you listened to the complaints about Sogea-Satom’s slow operation lasting beyond schedule and creating craters cradling cars to sleep in watery coffins.
It’s 5:30pm, I’m on my way home.
Slowly in first gear through one I go.
Slowly through the second I go.
No. I tell you they aren’t civil.
To my right are two lanes of cars blocking pedestrians trying to stomp the pavement, and the cars honk as if right, and fight for right of way, while the police stare dismayed, and the rest on the normal way display anger, frustrated for they know all those will go first, not they, unless they go for the throat of the pedestrians and throw care away.
Clutch out, first gear, it moves. I brake.
There’s been days 10km turned to 100
And days 10km became as long as a trip to Kenya
When from the airport the person boarding calls you in traffic, “I have arrived”, and you bash your brains on the steering in a Kobain tantrum, and look right at those civilians as a bunch of Brady Ians when you consider they aren’t civil.
Clutch out, accelerate a little, and then brake.
One’s trying to skip the line in front of you as the police arrive and raise an index finger to remind them that the pavements are for feet, and it’s a car a lane, and she struggles with you not caring if her rush to arrive is marred by her marring your patient eagerness to see your home by scratches and dents on metal…hopefully she doesn’t.
Accelerate, brake, my soul breaks.
What’s wrong with these people? The same sad song daily, and the same solutions are brought daily, but learning is water on a ducks back so…
Clutch out, accelerate, brake.