Commuting

Please note that more of David King’s poetry on GlobalComment can be found here. – The Management.

Hell begins at six and has six lanes
Damp black asphalt, slashed by hard white lines,
And crawled by insect shapes of steel and glass.
Unfeeling calculation sees them pass,
Presses the loud pedal, hearing as it whines
The engine’s harsh combustion, brutality of motion.

My hasting mind knows nothing but the goad
That striking, stinging, makes me traverse hell,
Awake too early for the driving fit.
The signs that guide, written and unwrit,
Compassionless and hopeless, daily spell
Lines of raw futility drawn into infinity.

Six lanes are parents to the grey of tenders:
Mapped out to lead to half-disguised indentures;
Bearing husks of drained humanity,
Unthinking cargoes of necessity,
Who go where they would not on bootless ventures
Through arid years that drink unshed our tears.