The Commute

A Prose poem

The Commute  

 

I sat in my car once, dying like the rest of you

silenced by my own disbelief

watching workers repair potholes in the street.

 

There were 14 of those orange idiots

standing around looking at the ground as the traffic around them slowed

to a crawl.

And these ones were nothing…these centers of attention.

I must have bent my car a million times on the bad ones up on Millstone. Why don’t they go fix those?

 

Those holes in the road catch you by surprise

and shake you back from your LA traffic daydream

and in to a righteous type of anger.

 

All of sudden… I can become so much better

than the engineers and the planners and the voters and the city that allows these goddamn potholes.

“Hell, I could fix that damn hole in five minutes”, I scream out loud.

I then contemplate for a moment returning in the dark with a shovel and some quickly cooling asphalt.

Yea… I’d show THEM how it’s done!

 

Like a million other paths taken in a life

this one opened up before me
and I was once again driving fast and steady.

National Public Radio was broadcasting a story of some child prodigy in Bangledesh

who at 6 years old, played the Violin like Paggannini and who’s parents raised eels for a living.

 

I wondered

what a commute to work might by like…. for them.

what with their stilt houses built on muddy waters

and a small boat for transport.

 

And then she began to play

 

slow and delicate at first…like the child she is.

but soon

wielding a command of the instrument that had chills climbing my neck.

The music and the story of this unlikely virtuoso

had me...taken.

Aloft on foreign clouds I sailed

past the troubles of tomorrow and the pains of yesterday.

Gone from the noise of this world

this little girl took me.

What music…..what magic….what….

KABOOM ! ----KABAMB !!!!

 

Godaam Potholes!

 

Danon Troy H  2013©

Reviews

[Just Kim]

Lol to your ending,
I enjoyed the read.

[Penlight]

Thank You!