Inching Along

Tired of the same old, same old;
and the constant aggravation.
Tired of traffic fumes sucking out your lungs;
hanging onto every sodding fibre.
Calm down, you fuming fellaheen,
inside that SUV.
Wait, someone’s trying to cross the road.
My road, your road, everyone’s road.

So what was once threatening
to become a rant.
Becomes the slow strum
of a well tuned guitar.
Close your eyes and listen
to its steady rhythm.
Forget about the monster,
hanging on his horn.

Forget about the cop,
cruising low in an unmarked Honda.
With ridiculous hair:
blonder than the blondest football player.
And remember when you’re
inching along, tired out with inactivity,
there’s whole lot of others,
doing exactly the same.

From Soho into Brighton,
and all the way down  to the Old Kent Road.
A Monopoly Board of roads and cities.
A showroom of the large and small.
Everyone following a pumping exhaust,
stretching in line to that
plain blue yonder.
A joke backfiring like a gun.

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