My Poetry. Traffic jams.

Late again—oh joy, what fun!
The traffic’s stretched from here to the sun.
Engines cough, tempers flare,
I’ve aged ten years just sitting here.

Clutch up, clutch down, my foot’s gone numb,
the car behind plays a drum with his thumb.
The radio blasts the same old tune—
I think I’ll lose my mind by noon.

Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
A symphony of broken hearts.
The cyclists glide with smug delight—
“Lovely day!” they sing in flight.

Horns erupt, a battle cry,
as drivers glare and wonder why
we humans choose this daily test—
a rolling cage, a traffic nest.

I dream of trains, of flying cars,
of teleporting straight to Mars.
Anything but this four-wheel crawl,
the slowest torture of them all.

At last I arrive, an hour too late,
colleagues smirk—it’s become my fate.
The boss just sighs, with practiced gloom:
“Traffic jam, again, I presume?”

So here’s my pledge, bold and grand:
tomorrow I’ll walk—across the land!
For nothing’s worse, I’ll tell you plain,
than another morning stuck in this chain.