The Traffic
Traffic! Traffic! Burning gas,
On the highways nose to ass,
What deranged, sadistic mind
Would jam commuters to this grind?
In what deepest darkest hells
Burns the poisons thou expels?
On what tires dare He roll?
What the wheel that lost control?
And what tolls, what breakdown lanes,
Could speed the neurons of thy brain?
And when thy brain should overheat,
What dread voice? On what dread street?
What the road rage? What the gun?
In whose brain should I put one?
What the horn? What baseball bat
Dares the driver to combat?
When the drivers shout their jeers
And ram the others, sides and rears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Does He run the DMV?
Traffic! Traffic! Burning gas,
On the highways nose to ass,
What deranged sadistic mind
Would jam commuters to this grind?
by Bob Lorentson
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Despite not having an MFA, Bob Lorentson persists in writing. When not writing he likes to indulge in his passion for wondering. He is a wonderful wonderer who wonders about nearly everything, including why he would write this silly bio when he could be wondering why he can't find a publisher for his novels. Recent stories and poems however have found homes or are in the adoption process at Sleet, Praxis, Better Than Starbucks, Leaves of Ink, and Quinnehtukqut. He lives in rural Connecticut.