Friday night traffic eats into my sanity
in a different way than Monday morning traffic
or internet traffic or the air traffic controller’s
traffic or the trafficking of young girls
or weapons or kilos of cocaine.
Autos and trucks merge on and off
as quickly as banana slugs emerge in
rainwater. The flood of red taillights
creates seas of cars going exactly where
I need to go when I need to get there.
And how is that?
These people do not live with me
or even near me, and yet they all
want to be in my lane turning
on the street I need to turn on
at the very same time I need to turn
Why don’t I know them?
They are not strangers, these commuters
who look so weary on the eve of weekend
revelry. Inside their metal carriages,
and perhaps inside their craniums,
they are the heroes of some other’s life.
Their day, like mine, filled with small victories
and minor defeats, began early–ended late
and somewhere in between they wondered
when Friday would arrive. On Friday evening,
they would head home next to me in traffic.