Traffic by Alex Rasmussen

Traffic
by Alex Rasmussen

The cars all grind to a stop:

one can feel the pressure mount

in ripples through the pavement.

There is, of course, the usual mix of models:

the lumbering herds of Ford Explorers,

the fleet and solitary Dodge Stratuses.

And, of course, most idle

greasy unclean and festering

under the midday sun.

Coffee stains polka-dot every seat.

There is no hurry, no

scurrying through traffic lights,

no joyriding carful of teenagers.

There is no haze of exhaust fumes

through this dissipated air.

But in the breakdown lane

the stolen car with the burnt-out

headlights stalls, its abductor

in a panic with

manic groping sweaty fingers

twisting the impotent key

like the wrist of some

staunch deviant offender

in the ignition

sweating out the crawling, pricking barbs:

the brute caress of freedom.