no exit

as i sit in traffic,
coffee in it's holder,
the steam once rising,
is long gone by now,
a thin newspaper full
of old news, unread,
but unfolded on the seat
beside me, i am inching
further up the road
with others, heading
towards a place where
money can be made, where
my life can be extended,
such as it is, you need
to feed the furnace
of existence, but the
slow crawl is slower
than ever, and you can
see the grey, long faces
already, at 8 a.m.
pushing at buttons to
change the station
on their radios, craning
their necks to see a
break, something, talking
on their phones,
smoking, tapping the
wheel, cursing. it's
more like slow dying,
not living, at this pace.