You *****!
You twitching tick of a man,
clogging lanes with your choked-up ego,
your mirror’s a shrine to your own smug face,
overtook like the rules were quaint,
like courtesy was some antique word
you'd auctioned off for a moment’s gain.

You *****!
sharp with nothing beneath,
your car a coffin for grace and tact,
steering through lives like they’re backdrop noise,
your brake lights blink like cheap excuses.

I saw you with your slipstream swagger,
the sneer worn like a braid of barbed wire,
and I wondered,
not if you’d crash,
but if you ever learned how to slow.

You were the storm’s rehearsal snarl rehearsed in chrome,

Your lane-change a fault line, a tectonic shrug beneath civility’s crust.
Your overtaking not motion, but motive
a hunger to be first in a race no one else was running.

Your indicators are Morse for mayhem,
-- .- -.-- .... . --
a signal sent to nobody,
because you only speak in static.

And yet, silence followed,
the hush of cars coasting beside restraint,
the world not clattering in outrage
but watching,
like a cat beneath streetlights.

I didn’t yell.
I counted the trees instead,
their branches like bones with secrets,
their leaves whispering forgiveness
to the wind that never apologised.

The road held us both me, and him,
like it does every stranger in love with arrival.