Yes, the traffic problem is terrible.
I find it so in my mind, too.
Skipping from the swift shining limousine of an Emotion,
I am spattered by the broad tires of a thundering Platitude;
Almost nipped by a clangorous ambulance bearing a swooning Certainty
I barely escape the rumbling trolley of Doubt.
And ever and again,
While my timid soul stands dubiously alert,
The Fire Chief goes chiming up my medulla
In his little red racer.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.