PHILIP SCHULTZ
The Traffic
At first it objected
to our slithering abundance,
which was always
demanding to be praised,
and our fretful certainty.
Now it knows nothing
is its fault, it must go
where we take it,
where we need to go.
Its job is to never
be late or early, pushed
about, or trod upon
by its eagerness to please;
to be unafraid of its
own willowy flow; forever
wandering this way
and that, never expecting
to be right or wrong,
one way or two. It
has learned long ago
to sit back and enjoy
the view, which,
admittedly, isn’t quite
as important
as was once believed;
to be grateful for
what often seems
a vast purposelessness,
which, though
at times painful,
at least ends
where it began:
an idea no one
can any longer bear
to understand.
