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Poem About Traffic

Updated on December 10, 2013


Gridlocked cars

No end in sight

Controlling anger

No need to 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 we live

© 2013 Eric Niehoff


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