stop light, thunderstorm, mid-august, sober

the rain pounds down in waves,
and yet each drop
leaves its own distinct insult
as they beat my 
humming drumming clunker
into submission.
i sit in lonesome silence,
waiting for the primary eyes
to give me a turn 
to go,
and i sift accordingly through
this red light hotbox blues.
thin sheets of oily gray smoke
set a solemn mood,
the 'mats permeate 
my crackling speakers,
and goddamn if paul ain't right,
that absolution
is out of the question.
sweat begins to sting and stop
just above my brow,
i keep my hood pulled close anyway,
and i can't find a steady hand
to calm these churning gears
as the streets become oceans
and this hell ride reaches its 
breaking point.
without care or warning,
red secedes to green,
an ever-knowing oracle,
and i am gone,
having passed such a 
dreadful moment
with no repose,
the only wonder lying in
the fact that hundreds more
will face the same
despondent seconds
before the storm has
passed.