Traffic

We sit and wait in lines upon lines

Inching home in metal boxes

The wheels turn a quarter way

And red lights flare again

We sit and wait evening and morning

Over and over with radios tuned

Our feet keeping a stuttering time

We grow angry with the red lights before us

Have you ever wondered who sits beside you?

What joy or dread do they carry?

We become oblivious to the cosmos

Contained in each car, each person

We sit and wait in our rolling metal boxes

And sometimes pantomime a courtesy

—Or a curse—

A play at connection

Inch, step, red lights flare

Fiddle with the radio

Curse, roll eyes, wave, inch, step

We sit and wait