a poem called the commute

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


x number of hours from

a to b, and while certainly it can always be worse,

it could always be better---

the fact remains that there are motherfuckers in the


who don’t have to get up early & jump in their cars

to get on the freeway & haul ass

while dealing with the frustrations of every moron that

was able to get a driver’s license,

there are people in the cities who walk to work,

who hail a cab &

yes, though there are those that stuff themselves into a

small tin box in a

sequence of small tin boxes &

glide slowly in the heat, underground, stopping every

100 feet or so…

the commute doesn’t warrant such thoughts that might

illuminate the commute itself.


the commute is time spent in a personal cell

drifting above the asphalt, pondering all the

happenings of the day before,

of the night before,

witnessing the weather, whatever it might be,

treating you like its own little pet teddy bear

to throw around in its teeth,

like a dog that just got out of the pound

getting that first real bone again


and the morning coffee on the way

just doesn’t do it,

and the donut or the bagel or the cigarette or the


just doesn’t do it---

it seems no matter what can be done in that time

spent in the car,

the commute steals time that could’ve been spent



might think that it is the 21st century &

the fact that they don’t have flying cars or the ability

to “beam me up, scotty,”

just pisses the fuck out of you,

might think that oral sex would improve the ride if you

had cruise control,


might think that this routine is

killing you, and that the commute itself represents the

inability to make what you really want in life to be

your own, quicker---

might think that today is the day to step on the gas,

make a quick withdrawal at the bank &

turn your back on all that was,

making only room for what lies ahead.

Submitted: April 26, 2012

© Copyright 2022 delapruch. All rights reserved.

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