You write about loves
and heart breaks. I will write
about traffic jams.
I will write about the fingers
that die
like short cuts to dreams
in manipulating cars
through traffic jams.
Like medusa’s hair, like dreams,
like draperies of sutured shawls
by tired fingers. Block the dreams
they said and I blocked them.
I can’t write about traffic jams
anymore; I am driving. I should
not write about life when living.
I can’t.
In a traffic jam
claiming
a little space
ahead of a little car
is a big
thing, in life.
A little context: If you really think about it. Our life can be compared with a traffic jam. We are stuck in it, and yet we (as poets) are trying to write about it. Those who are not poet, are the ones driving. Like myself, when I wrote this verse.
