Rush Hour

The gray man in the next lane over
digs into his nose, oblivious
to the fact that there are six lanes
of witnesses to his nasal excavation.

The bumper in front of me touts peace
and the sun winks through a crystal
pendant hanging from the rearview mirror
while a leather-tanned hand dangles
out the window flicking cigarette ash.

Somewhere behind me the air
is punctuated by the seismic bass
thump of some cholo’s rap music.
Words are garbled but I can feel
the beat in my bones as Dr. Dre
and Snoop serenade us.

To my left a sleek black Beamer
shelters a woman who appears
to be talking to no one. Then
she tucks her hair behind her ear
and I see the earpiece. She’s not
insane (yet). She’s talking her
way through rush hour.

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