Morning Traffic Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

What is it with Monday morning traffic?
And it's hurl-burly psychopathic panic.
To cut each other off and honk horns
With ferocious 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.
Meeting at 10: 30 am, that's the deadline, isn't it enough?
That our eyes are heavy and we're feeling near dead.
That it's been planned months, 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?
Observing a distant part of ourselves in a 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.