Work Text:
And now for a look at traffic.
On Route 800
just before exit 71
a sense of deep
foreboding
seeps from the road
and into the hearts
of drivers and passengers alike.
“Why are we here?”
a woman asks her wife.
“Where are we going?
Did your brother
plant green beans this year?”
Her wife doesn’t know
and the not knowing is a bird
fluttering
in her stomach.
A yellow helicopter passes overhead
weaving between
lavender ribbons of rain.
The rain sings
a counterpoint
to helicopter blades—
a shushing song
that should ease the mounting
disquiet
in the cars below
but instead builds
and builds
to a fevered pitch.
Soon the people sing along
a wave of discordant discontent
that sweeps cars
and passengers alike
along a newly formed river of
anxious anticipation.
A teenage boy shouts.
“Stop!
Can’t you see
this is what the rain
wants?”
But no one hears
over the rising song
and he stands alone
on the shoulder
pleading with hands
and eyes
and cracking voice.
when the sky clears
and the sun shines again
on wet pavement
he gets in his car
and drives home to
wonder
what it’s all about.
This has been...
traffic.