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Rush Hour
by Cathlyn Cartier
Endless miles of concrete,
A never ending sea of red,
Reminding of the blood of innocent lives that has spilled out upon these roads.
The cacophonous symphony of screeching tires, blaring horns, voices screaming,
Stereo thumping nearby sending a tingle through your toes.
And you sit.
Waiting to move a yard, a foot, even an inch.
An opening in the gridlock.
You make your move,
Only to receive directions to your eternal reward with one finger pointing the way,
Immediately followed by the sound of crushing metal and shattering glass.
The vulturous scavengers arrive within seconds.
Lining up waiting for their opportunity at the carnage.
The medics check for injuries.
You protest that you are fine,
As the blood trickles from the three inch gash across your brow.
The officer arrives and questions you,
As the medics prep your wound.
A citation!?
Your car is totaled.
You're late to work.
Your head feels like a round of artillery has exploded inside,
And now this!
Monday morning rush hour ~
What a pain in the ass!
09/24/1999 Posted on 09/24/1999
Copyright © 2024 Cathlyn Cartier
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 04/10/03 at 06:28 PM Interpreted: "The morning I should have stayed in bed!" Vivid imagery and sound make this a lively poem. It's message is one of frustration and disgust! |
| Posted by Rommel Cruz on 05/08/03 at 02:05 AM this is not funny! LOL. |
| Posted by Charles E Minshall on 08/01/03 at 03:46 AM I am lucky I only drive three days a week in rash
hour traffic. That is quite enough though, darn
crazy drivers. Good poem Cathie...Charlie |
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