Traffic in the streets,
like the city has a cold,
that has made to the lungs,
you are much more, than that
sinkhole on one fifty-two, to me,
this won't stop me or get me down,
cars surround mine, four wheels drowning in
plastic up to the roofline,
my nerves, are no longer elastic,
they call it the rush hour,
should be the crush hour,
for all the fender benders,
and drivers in my face,
laying on their horns,
saying, "pay attention",
and their intention is
to take your place in line,
if I could be anywhere it,
would be with you but here
am I, in the heart of one five two,
main artery blocked by grid lock,
and my thoughts turn east,
away from the feast that waits
for me up the road,
there is something about the mysterious
unknown, that has grown on me,
but if I don't focus on the locusts
overhead, and those behind the wheel
                     of their automobile,
my life
maybe
summed
up by an accident.

Uh huh, Uh huh