Some say life is like a river, always moving,
sometimes slow and smooth, snake-like in its
S’ing to a Maybe. Other times it’s rough and rushing,
a cascade over rocks to some mist-hidden secrets below.
Maybe it’s more like being behind the wheel
of a car during the morning rush hour.
One day it’s bright and sunny, or it’s fog-shrouded.
Others days it’s skate-edgy with calamitous icy potential.
And I’m stuck in this middle-lane nightmare,
either creeping along or careening NASCAR-style,
door-handle to door-handle, drafting the bumper and
sharing the over-heated press of the souls around me.
I’m unable to move ahead, go around, or pull to any off-ramp,
unless I decide to gouge my way through them,
a self-destructive wedge scattering harried humanity
on their way to indefinite destinations only they may reach.
Just ahead I see the bridge over the Mohawk, that black eel
sliding past marinas, power plants and a final-rest landfill
until it dives over the Cohoes Falls, where Henry Hudson decided
his ultimate course. Wheel gripped a little tighter, I feel wedgy.