Going Home Poem by Fiona Burgess

Sitting in another rush hour traffic jam,
Watching the inbound traffic cruising past me and away,
I look at their blank faces
And I wonder, do I look the same?
My eyes and theirs, hidden behind dark glasses
Against the glare of the blood soaked sun
That highlights the clouds
And stains the sky.
The windows to our souls
Barred from public view.
The music that pulsates through my car
And through my mind
Deafens me to the sounds outside my airconditioned world
Glancing in my mirror, I see the flashing lights,
Weaving and edging through the reluctant vehicles,
Sort of like a dying fish, trying to move through toxic mud.
I grin slightly at the morbid thought
As i manouver my vehicle over
To allow the ambulance past.
'So that's the reason for the jam, '
I think idly, as i check my reflection in the side mirror.
Someone hoots at me, and I flash a rude sign in their direction,
Can't they see? The hooting stops.
Another day, another death on the same road
That I've travelled along for years.
Are people so disdainful of life?
Lives lost through ignorance and carelessness.
The hours and minutes ticking by, like soldiers sedately marching,
And the traffic begins to creep forward.
Some fool in his fancy, flashy Jag, begins ducking
in and out of the sluggish mass,
I sigh.
Some people never learn, oneday he will be the cause of a jam like this,
He too will kill himself, and possibly the child of some happy little family,
Heading out to the country for a weekend getaway from the inner city violence.
What a waste,
I cared more deeply once, but time grows old,
I'm just going home now.