I-95 rides up the side
of the curve of a scythe
in a long, slow slide
from the bubbling 'burbs
filled with cable and curbs
like a cupped hand
drawing warmth from
the flame of a lit candle.

I'm driving to work.

The sun thins the snow's skin
in the city it's sitting in
as it sends me a spin
a slight slip to the right
swung around by the light
as my car is pulled farther
from longitudinal lines,
and pointed instead slightly starboard.

Up ahead I see a blue Volvo.

My spite starts to bite
at this blight in my sight
'cause he's trite and too white
with his cel-phone displayed
"look at the money I made"
and, as he waves it around
I can see in his mirror
he's not making a sound.

I'm on to you!

I shout "shut up and drive",
give myself a high-five,
and ride right up beside
just to give him a nod
'cause I know he's a fraud.
I'm Eliot Ness
and I've tapped your phone
Mr. Capone.

Then I look a little closer.

My foe's frosty window
shows the shape of a nose
with a mouth just below shaped like a Cheerio
where a kid pressed his face
with no sense of disgrace
just 'cause it seemed to him
it might be fun to do
something like that, on a whim.

I drive past without saying a word.

I resolve to relax
and to ax my attacks
'cause my cracks just plain lack
any kind of constructive criticism,
meaning, value or witticism.
And, besides, what the hell have I ever done
that justifies my self-righteousness
what good have I ever done?

The engine sounds like a lonely, old man.