Oh, how grand you were, barreling through the intersection -

While I, with signal blinking bright,

Prepared my leftward turn, polite and patient.

But no, not you -

You soared like a bat from hell,

Ciggy clenched between yellowed lips,

Fat old piggy in a rust-ragged shell.

Your old-ass truck, coughing black smoke,

Barely missed my Ford -

As if pausing two seconds would break your fragile world.

No, you had to charge,

Like you were fleeing cops in some lost youth fantasy,

Cancer stick smoldering

Like the last dignity you had left.

Was it too much to ask,

To wait your turn?

To not make contact

With the vehicle of someone

Who follows the rules you clearly scorn?

You, with your out-of-date shit wagon,

Charging through as if possessed by demons

Or just terminal ego rot.

Next time, before you race through an intersection

Like a geriatric Fast & Furious reject,

Do us all a favor:

Breathe.

Pause.

And maybe don't drive

Like the crusty old sack of cigarettes you so proudly are.