Toll booths

(Southbound...)

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.

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Check out My Personal Anthology (12 Poems). 

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