Reading & Writing Poetry
traffic jamthe stranger in the next carsmiles at me
My car lays gasping, nosedivedinto a drift. I breaststroke my way to the only front door in sight,and knock until bruises burn through my gloves,but there’s no one home.Maybe the people who live here ignored the weather warnings too, trusting the ineptitude of forecastersbut snow smothered the skeleton of a tree,so it creaked and cracked and collapsed blocking the road.I wonder if they’re banging on a door somewhereand wondering about the people not inside.
Feb.13.The road is blocked.We’re on our way,a family of four,passports packed.Excited children at the thoughtof a first channel crossing,practising their modest French,not many miles from port.We’ve had to slow down; stop.No cause in sight.Drivers leave their wheelsconsult, united in annoyance.Children fret, momentarily distracted by fast meltingchocolate bars.There’s no grass verge, just tarmac. The sun is hot,the drinking water in demand.Ice cream, an impossible dream.The road is blocked.
No Way throughI wish they would shut the road through the woods.I daren’t go down there now.The way will be blocked with bulldozersand machines with balls on chainsTo smash down the oaksthat are two hundred years oldto create another two lanesto speed the traffic through.In my dreams I am multiplieda thousandfold or more. There are hundredsof us walking slow. Holding upthe diggers and blocking the road.
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