by Christian Cassidy-Amstutz
The end of the world had to be at rush hour
with me stuck in it, of course.
The last ten minutes,
slowly inching forward, were for nothing.
Although, with the world being over,
everything was for nothing.
Some jarring pop song continues
to play on the radio, oblivious
that every circumstance that led to its creation
I find my foot tapping in time
with the beat. No one left
to listen, but me, my toes.
Maybe it’s just that they’re itchy,
itchin' to scratch the gas, press the pedal
to the metal, as they say. Roar
away, down two-lane highways flanked by blood,
American deserts, pop tunes
jiving in my ears. Instead,
I’m stuck behind a silver Chevy Venture
the hint of a children’s car seat
peeking at me from the rear window.
The melody of the radio singer drowning
in the static of the speakers.