traffic jams bring me closer
to death than all other
beasts and greater horrors,
slowly it builds—pushing
my limits until i fly from
any of the four doors.

supermarket sadness has stabbed
invisible daggers within my arms
and my two tired legs,
as i select the same weekly
items—reaching below bottom
and beyond the vile dregs.

working for my boss as he
in turn works for a boss
floors above and out of sight,
hands taking from mouthes
seems strange—but we must
remain strong for whatever fight.

no time to spend at home,
in the park, on vacation
or in the bath ready with the toaster,
no time to say prayers,
to tell the truth or be grateful,
no time to get off this roller coaster.

© Conor J. Josten