No Exit

I'm stuck
in traffic
on a Friday,
the weekend
preceeding
Labor Day.
Everyone
is heading
home early,
heading
out of town
in all directions,
luggage on
their rooftops,
bikes strapped
to the backs
of their cars,
kids pressing
their round faces
against foggy
windows.
I can see
their freckles
melt
against the glass.
It's raining
in sheets.
The roads
are full
of detours,
orange cones,
line both sides
of the road,
there are flares
ablaze,
punched into
the pavement
and the blue
lights of cop cars
swirl brightly
in the haze,
accidents
are everywhere,
but people
are still speeding,
they want to get
home,
like rats
in a maze, they
can smell
the cheese.
They are
focused dead
ahead,
white knuckles
gripping
the wheel.
No one
is giving
an inch.
There's not
a Christian
soul
in the lot of them.
All I want
to do is cross
these six
lanes of highway
and exit, to get
the hell off
and find
a pancake house
where
I can lather
up a stack
with syrup
and butter,
have a cup
of coffee
and wait it out.
I've had my
signal on
for over an hour,
sweet Jesus,
won't someone
please let
me in.