Red Curtain by: Bethany Huey, Acrylic on canvas – 2015
I look ahead
It is as though every car is a grain of sand and I am stranded
in the desert; sitting, slouched, in solitude and silence.
My only companion is a gnome peddling a stationary bike
in my mind producing scads of offensive slander.
I want to launch them into the sky like fireworks “Ooh”-ing and
“Aah”-ing as my insult embers trickle down on all who surround me.
I look to my left
A porky little pipsqueak forcing french fries into his black hole
of a mouth. His mom has a growth on the side of her face,
a cell-phone-anoma. She is completely oblivious to the grease-stained
glutton perched next to her using his fingertips as paint brushes,
he is going full blown Sistine chapel on her dashboard.
I look at the clock
Although I am stopped, time is not. I can see the minutes
dripping away like an ice cream cone Satan tried to carry home.
I try to catch them but they slip right through my fingers,
exploding as they splash on the blue matted carpet below.
I look to my right
The cars inching forward like a tortoise pouring molasses
in a January blizzard. An opening appears, as if Moses himself
has parted this sea of four-wheeled soul suckers just for me.
I turn on my blinker and slide in like hot butter on a frying pan.
Flooded with excitement, I step on the gas pedal for the first time
in what seems like an eternity. I am happier than a little girl
who has just seen a mermaid riding a unicorn over a double rainbow.
I look ahead
Brake lights twinkling like lightning bugs on a clear summer night.
I imagine I am in a discotheque, dancing, dreaming, distant.
Stopped again. All hopes of being on time, crushed like a spider
under my shoe on the kitchen floor. I feel hopeless on this hooligan filled
highway from hell. Practically parked, guess I will enjoy the scenery.
I look to my left