RUSH-HOUR

A gelid mid-winter day, after

boreal black ice blanketed the road

overnight, like an enemy stealth bomber,

splenetic drivers, a swarming army of

menacing red ants on the march, passes

anything that moves, bound for carnage,

behemoths hog the road bullying

hybrids out of the way.

A jack-knifed trailer-truck

lying on its side, a wounded elephant,

air-horns bellow mournfully.

A nine car pile-up in the sleet and fog,

metal to metal clashing like giant

cymbals, blood splattered glass,

clanking hub-caps and the wails

of the injured waiting for the jaws-of-life

as a crushed Suzuki becomes a flying

fireball sailing over the guard rail.

A severed head rolls down the hillside.

As the curious move on, they vow

to drive more carefully, reach for coffee

and begin to dial.

Milton P. Ehrlich