by Glen Martin Fitch
Some driver cut me off
in my commute.
I swore.
At work I told a friend
still mad.
Said she,
"I scream 'God BLESS you'."
I fell mute,
incredulous,
then foolish,
hopeless, sad.
'God BLESS you.'
Huh?
Just belch among your friends.
Your manners they'll deride.
But arch and huff,
spew out with germs
far flung
and others act
as if you almost died.
Perhaps this isn't
'bout that stupid lout.
(Hey, does controlling others
ever really work?)
Perhaps,
myself is what it's all about.
'Cause next mile
I don't want to be the jerk.
I wish we all would truly
seek to please.
Perhaps rude driving's
just a moral sneeze.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011