baby by David Wiggins

∴ gridlock grip

radios rage
harsh horns

blameless
invisible hitchhiker
riding shotgun
with their baby’s spirochete-shaped toys

no hoarder of keepsakes
yet these toys remain
unbidden, in the car’s confines

navigation fogged
voices speaking foreign
lost in tongues unknown

a throng of commuters
thundering past
a stampede of haste

temperature spikes
engine protesting
overheating in defiance

tires wearing thin
tread fading fast
inch by weary inch

angry gestures fly
as vehicles creep by
their impatience palpable

brakes fail
a screeching wail
sqreeeeeeee
head-on collision

a breath. a release

a moment’s caress of this chaos
a minor delay

homeward bound. soon
i’ll be on my way ∴

Spiro Keats