A man in a black shirt
Glances across through wet glass
To see what I’m doing
Drumming on the steering wheel
In time to the music
And the beat of the wipers
To the other side, a girl chats on her mobile
Oblivious to the rain beating down
And the two men watching her, envious
Lines of lights ahead and behind
A red sea that does not part
Three lanes aligned, facing forward
Inching along in the queue
Bumper to bumper
Blocked, jammed
Wheels and windows
Boxes of metal, plastic and glass
Fluffy dice, stickers, air-fresheners
Singular environments, separate worlds
Personal spaces, lives in a landscape
Of black wet tarmac
Matrix on the gantry
Flashing warning messages
That say nothing helpful
Reflecting on a thousand shiny surfaces
Cars, coaches and cabs
Trucks and taxis
Caught in the same stasis
Time and space co-ordinates dead
Suspended sat-navs silently waiting
For onward progress to occur
And something to say
Activities suspended, action on hold
Hurrying home or toiling to the terminal
To catch a flight that will not wait
Marooned, late, tired, frustrated
Despairing in the dark
Looking forward to a future
That has no clear horizon
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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