Truck Route 1 & 9

April is the cruelest month. April is also National Poetry Month. Here's one I wrote. Write your own.

Truck Route 1 & 9
just before ten,
headed to Jersey City.
Smokestacks below,
Bayonne right -
left lane closed.

Why?
Repaving?
New lines?
A fence of orange cones,
bending east,
traffic heavy,
merging difficult.
Then there’s Communipaw.
I think “I hate Communipaw.”
bouncing to a stop,
waiting for the green
(ALWAYS waiting for the green).
Wondering what I’m breathing,
what’s in the air,
what’s burning beneath the Skyway,
what’s seeping into the ground?
Where’s the goddamn light?
Ten minutes -
at least it feels that long,
thinking
“Where the fuck
will I ever find
bags for that vacuum
my father gave me?”
Some kind of self-propelled
piece of crap
with obsolete bags.
Sitting, waiting,
on Truck 1 & 9,
Wondering if the last good century
was the 20th.
And nothing on the radio
I haven’t heard
one million fucking times.
Cassettes:
not this one -
this one.
“Dragged by my feet
through the street
neckbone, headbone”
No, this one:
“Bye-bye sweet Roseanna -
I won’t be home tomorrow.”
WHERE’S THE GODDAMN GREEN?!
GIVE UP THE GREEN, MOTHERFUCKER!
My ammeter, discharging…
why the hell...
HONK
BEEP-BEEP
Son of...
Okay!
Green light,
go.

Comments

[Zach in Philly]

I feel your pain, Chris.
Since you bought a bicycle in Bayonne, here's a traffic poem about bicycling.

Civilized bicycling
sucks a tailpipe.
Cross-town inter-
course in miracles
serves pothole luck.
You lookin' at me?
The sign says:
Bus and Bike Only.
Nice turn signal, asswipe.
Did it come standard with
the SUV or was it extra?
Finally, Fairmount Park!
... and we have liftoff.