rush hour

A Poem by Marshall

as sure as every morn when the rays wade into the nights receding
the traffic lanes build up closely
and from all streams one by one they crawl
on their four round wheels into spidery webs of white lines
heading to the city where their lives have become entangled
by the frailties of living.

Little kids crying and scrubbing butter on test testing
patience and time and reluctance to head to school
that boring daily task of learning little
from tired teachers, working towards an overcrowded
weekend mauled by paper tigers and red tick marks.

I too, join the spilling web towards city
where scholars who know everything that
should be known from the wider world
invade the cafeteria with frizzy coke and custard pies
and armed with massive heavy books saunter
off to numbered classrooms and halls
to get educated. I dread the latecomer
who looks askance at me and with disdain
when I question punctuality.

The day unfolds as we weave in and out
of technological wonders, bringing sense
to the complex throb of learning that entraps us.

I race home at 3, checking my phone for all
the days signposts of my location and living.