Traffic Joy

You hide inside a glass and metal cage
Not strong enough to save your flimsy life,
And sometimes feel the raw, red pang of rage
When drivers make lewd gestures at your wife.
They’re rude extensions of their loved machines,
inhuman as a piston or a wheel.
Such folk at home may not be cruel or mean
But stuck in traffic that’s the way they feel.
Once hooting starts it fast becomes a din
As drivers shut in cabins lose their calm
And try to fight a war they cannot win.
There does remain one temper-cooling balm:
Since, if the traffic makes your patience wilt
You can enjoy being idle without guilt.