I-75 Rush Hour

It’s running with bulls,
stampeding, semis running
over the raucous rumble-strip
with a sucker-punctured rear
tire. Parked like sardines in
a writhing school, brakes
clamoring for relief, bands
knotted together on CB
radio, sea of grass around them.

Each dash of the lane-lines like a tooth
on a grinding table saw, sprinting
along and splitting the rippled
concrete like a bowsprit,
splintering the waves of
exhausted fume-sputters.


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