RUSH HOUR

RUSH HOUR

As we approach the Bay Bridge toll plaza

the guy driving the red Honda 

finishes up a close shave. Pats his cheeks.

In another lane, a man is poring over 

the stock exchange, the newspaper

slumped over the steering wheel like a blanket.

He's squinting, I worry about his eyesight, 

and the relative safety of driving during rush hour.

I finish off my apple down to the core.

Spin it on its axis. El mundo.

Two Mexicans roll down their window 

and ask, Si? and laugh. Please.

Another driver adjusts his headphones, 

taps out a complicated beat on his steering wheel 

with dueling pens. I can see that he's a drummer.

Everybody's multi-tasking while driving 

in their hermetically sealed cars. 

I'm the only one with my car window open,

and I worry about what eating happy meals 

while commuting does to one's digestion.

I marvel at the dexterity of those businessmen 

while I, the poet, haphazardly scribe it all down

between the blue lines of my notebook,

glancing up at the last minute, just in time

to see the warning flash of the red taillights 

of the car in front of me.

4/21/1986

added/rev. 2/17