Brake Check This, Motherfucker
When I left the house this morning,
I had hope,
I had purpose,
I had a plan.
But then a Tesla driver
decided that we all needed
to slow down
to a gradual crawl:
tires barely spinning
speed limit signs laughing in amazement.
You.
You are the target of my rage.
Feel my righteous indignation.
Understand that you are the problem.
Society suffers when you get behind
the wheel.
Stay the fuck out of this stanza,
this is for people to move forward.
But oh, you don’t just drive slow.
No, no–
that would be too simple,
too human,
too forgivable.
You brake for shadows
and swerve for leaves.
You tap the brakes at a green light
as if time itself needs buffering
before you dare to continue.
I watch you from behind,
hands tightening on the wheel,
a pulse pounding in my temple
like a countdown to detonation.
And in that moment, I wonder–
What went wrong in your life?
Who hurt you?
Do you feel joy?
Have you ever arrived on time?
And then,
you pull into the left lane.
THE LEFT LANE!
As if you are entitled
to the space where dreams are chased,
where destinies are met.
YOU are the dream killer, the destiny thief.
A sentient roadblock,
a moving violation against progress itself.
And yet, somewhere in the simmering rage,
a thought creeps in, uninvited.
What if you are right?
What if I’m the problem?
What if I am the one who needs
to slow down.
To breathe.
To stop chasing time
like it owes me something.
Maybe you are my lesson.
Maybe I should—
No.
Fuck that.
Move.
MOVE!
I lay on the horn like a battle cry.
You flinch.
You speed up.
For a moment, hope is restored.
And then–
red light.
We meet again,
as I exhale through gritted teeth.
You stare straight ahead,
pretending not to feel
the weight of my glare.
The light turns green.
You hesitate. I do not.
I launch forward,
peeling away,
leaving you
and your slow,
hesitant existence
in the dust.
A victory,
small and petty.
But mine.