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the bmw doesn’t think to signal as he
cuts me off on the way to work.

the clouds hang heavy through the windshield,
dense and unspooled, offering little comfort.

it’s almost may – a time of protest and renewal.

but today, late for a meeting, and at the mercy
of the traffic’s ebb and flow, I feel ill.

and when I somehow arrive on time the nausea
only increases because for 2 hours I sit here sour
and uninvolved, thinking – I will never reclaim this time.
so I try to claim it now by writing a poem, this poem,
in a feeble attempt at both protest and renewal.