Monday Morning Traffic Poem by Mark. A 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 scorn
Cursing under our breath and cussing…
Red-faced with a foul temper erupting,
Blaring-inside I'm sick of these moronic plebs.
Under the guise of a 10: 30 am deadline, it's enough
That our eyes are heavy and we're feeling near dead.
That it's been planned months and 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 with our distant selves in masquerade.
You look cut off, abandoned, and unhappy.
But honestly, there's no need to feel so crappy.
It's only Monday morning traffic, be happy.