Delays are bad today; nothing moves.
Contained at interchange, a stencil house smiles, as though
to make this place feel more like home.
Small comfort: we go nowhere fast.
The morning yawns through Western traffic haze; the day’s
light’s too bright. We squint in glare.
Lane changes ache; all is standstill
until a way can open up, within this artery of roads.
No wilderness; the way prepared
congeals, and so we wait
with hearts tuned out (the voice won’t shout
that says, Prepare the way.)
The Consolations of Writing 