locked in
waiting
killing time
she's late
frustrated
the traffic worms pulse
inching across the rear vision mirror
metal bodies on squat rubber legs
spasmodic shunt
to the next set of lights
the daily grind;
a congested conveyor
spitting casts to the factory floor
above, a winter wash of blue
latticed branches litter the sky
loquacious birds in sunlit space
attics flare their wooden nostrils
a cat soaks up the warmth
somewhere, a cello
poignant soulful
resonates
in harmony
she isn't coming
I am loathe to leave
©Leigh Hay 2007