Rush hour commute:
a heavy price
to pay… my debt
to society for some
impropriety?  
But I see
I’ve company
along the way.

My Accord inches forward.
The car lives up to its name,
insulates me from slow-motion insanity
unfolding outside its sanctuary,
a temple for contemplative
prayer where I plead
my caseto nobody
in particular.

The other cars move as one,
a sea of lemmings following
the flow of traffic, headed for
who cares where. Every morning:
the same tired procession,
a ritualized nightmare.
Is it any wonder it’s
come to this?

I check the speedometer,
if only to see if it can withstand
torture of this tortoise pace.
A horse-drawn carriage carrying
a dead princess would move faster.
Dead. Princess. I used to want to be both.
Thankfully, my wishes are
seldom granted.

The drone of my thoughts
goes on. I scan
the horizon for some diversion.
Not three feet
from the driver’s seat window,
bovine beauties peer
through evenly-spaced, round holes
in the metal carrier.

This one looks like Bessie,
the milk cow. Her
glassy-eyed innocence
says these cows know nothing
of their true destination.
They’re headed for
the end of the line,
chopped meat.

My stomach churns at the
awful realization: my own
lust for red meat may play
some part in Bessie’s fated end.
If I don’t look away – and soon! –
I’m bound to think of Bessie next time
I order up my favorite steak fajitas
or grab a burger to go.

Inside a Mercedes M Class,
a Southern Belle puts on her eyeliner,
then purses her lips and winks
a stamp of self-approval
in the rear-view mirror.
She catches me observing her
private ritual, apparently flattered
by the intrusion;

She waves
as if we were second cousins.
Twice removed
from picture perfect
world of pretense,
I fix my eyes on
the goal of avoiding
the accident ahead.

I swerve and survive,
destined to drive on
through dreary day.
I like to think
I’m lucky,
special,
chosen
one.

But I know
we’re more alike
than different –
Bessie, the Belle and me.
We’re on the slow road,
headed for the slaughterhouse,
never really knowing when
our time will come.