‘…congealing into traffic jams.’

Car horns blare,
White noise that
Fills the grey dawn streets,
Already thick with
Hawkers,
Vendors,
Billboards.

“You’re going places,”
That’s what they used to say.
“Places full of glass
And high-rise skylines.”

The hold-up starts to gnaw
And tempers fray,
But the radios and the billboards
Reassure us that we’re going places;

“And faster than before
In this hot new set of wheels.”

And every soul in suit and tie
Stares blankly at the dashboard,
The mirrors, the radio, the billboards,
Worried that they’re going places;
Places heavy with damp grass,
Fresh cut stone
And new dug earth
That’s full of worms.