Must be the Sword of Damocles hanging,
above and parallel to, the line of toll booths
cutting across the grey expressway,
that all them metal carriages, grind to a halt,
full stop -- one at a time, one after the other.
Then, upon compliance, just enough to catch
their gasoline breath, with engines rumbling still,
but volume down, they start rolling again --
one at a time, one after the other -- grudgingly,
increasing momentum, divided among three lanes,
but moving through one direction,
to branch out to each one's own destination.
* * *
Check out My Personal Anthology (12 Poems).
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