Monday Morning Traffic Poem by Mark Heathcote

What is it with Monday morning traffic?
and it's hurly-burly psychopathic-
panic to cut each other up and honk horns
with ferrous looks and scowling scorns
cursing under our breath and cussing…
Red-faced with a foul temper erupting,
Blaring-inside I'm sick of these moronic plebs.
Simply-to-meet a 10: 30 am deadline, it's enough
that our eyes are heavy and we're feeling near dead.
That it's been planned month's weeks ahead.
What's with this need to leave late and arrive early?
In a grumbling, rage to overtake and not stop at 30.
Could it be we are all routinely neutered?
Only to be left our distant selves in masquerade.
Sure, you look cut-off, abandoned, unhappy.
But honestly, there's no need to feel so crappy.
It's only Monday morning traffic, be happy.