Monday, June 19, 2006

Rush Hour

A man wedged in traffic
has no patience for poetry.
Don’t tell him
that the clouds
look like angels today,
as he laments the long trail of snails

that delays access to his next
arena of frustration.

He fumes, like the massive metal beast
whose black, poison exhaust mingles with
his own exhauste
d soul.
His horn cries unnoticed by that
mountainous ma
beyond which he can see

On with the A/C, the CD,
or the DJ’s traffic update—oh,
an accident a mile ahead will
detain him anoth
er hour!
Coffee’s cold; out of smokes;
vacation’s still th
ree months away.

Was it an accident? Or was it designed
by some sadistic mi
this daily round of hurrying toward
dead-end streets,

always looking for his exit
yet never breaking free?

He’s entered the twilight zone.
It’s the spite of the gods
(he made for himself)
that sends him on
this endless trek
only to realize that it’s
Monday morning, once again…

Me, I crunch my way down leaf-strewn paths
as the choirs in the trees
herald with gentle melodies
the peaceful sun
of the morning,
enraptured, as if today’s a new creation.
And I’m given p
atience for poetry.

But I don’t dare “thank God
I’m not like other men,”

condemned to impotent rage.
True, I do prefer our rustic trails

to those highway snails, by far—

but harried, hurried hearts
can also lodge in sacred temples.

And I know that there are still souls
who drive those r
elentless roads,
who have received their Christ-key
to open the gate
to the Other World.
They see the cloud-angels
and they’ve learned the secret of blessing.

The God of mountain-top ecstasies
and inaccessible
will speak his own poetry
of wordless, pure
to anyone who's not
yet sold his soul,
who longs for eyes to see
His omnipresen
t artistry.