Traffic Poem by Eric Niehoff

Gridlocked cars
No end in sight
Controlling anger
No need for a fight

Other lanes move
Mine stands still
Maybe it clears
Just after this hill

I see the speed limit
I laugh in my mind
To work once again
Back to the grind

It is called rush hour
But lasts longer than that
Cars ooze like mud
For an hour we sat

The radio reports
That it only gets worse
If only they all would
Just move and disperse

Attached to our cars
And the freedom they give
So until we change
This is how many of us live