Hey, white Suburban
honking at me because I
refuse to turn left –
and risk my whole life
for one minute of your time
and inconvenience –
Much I wish to say,
middle finger to display –
Instead, this Haiku.
White Suburban, you
will never read this letter.
I write for my soul’s
relief from madness
as one billion cars crowd old
streets made for horses.
Loud I want to scream,
roll down windows and demean –
Instead, this Haiku.
Dear black Cadillac,
waving me in to change lanes –
busy rush hour
on interstate south –
I could kiss you on the mouth.
Instead, this Haiku.
Hey F350,
ten thousand pounds, asleep – Crash!
Baby in my womb,
lying in the leaves,
sirens, ambulance, crying,
waiting for movement.
A day so scary.
Pain, birth, but then so merry –
You’re in this Haiku.
Red fire engine,
my son loves you, and I, too,
for you rescued us.
Just three numbers dialed,
you race like Jesus to save
hurting folks calling.
I’ll pull to the side,
whisper, “Godspeed” as you ride –
My prayer Haiku.
Honking red Jeep, please
forgive me. I linger at
green lights daydreaming
of long country roads
winding through wildflower fields
and cows at pasture –
Tunes up, windows down,
not another soul around –
Instead, this Haiku.
