Being a motorcyclist, I often watch other bikes as they buzz past when I'm in the car. On my commute I often see the same bikes pass at the same place each day, and again on the way home...
POETS is an acronym - "Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Satdy!"
The drive home.
Out into the traffic, someone, someone please let me in.
A kind soul stopped at the lights, not in such a hurry, waves me in. I pass.
Success ! I join the queue and I'm on my way, and its POETS Day !
Too much traffic between me and the weekend.
I hesitate at the lights, and I am lost. Lost.
Five more minutes wasted. I should have applied more foot.
Ease on to the highway, annoyed by someone who changes lanes faster than I.
He's in MY spot.
I glare at him from time to time as we settle in to the Long Way Home.
He is still in front of me. His car is newer, and Bluer than mine. Bastard.
Tail lights flare, bright in the dusk.
One, then the next, then the next, leading away from me up the hill like a string of Christmas lights.
Some idiot twenty cars ahead cannot decide which way to go. Shit.
Other idiots drive in all directions, bouncing left and right.
Dammit, stationary again now.
It's not my exit, but I can take it, and rejoin a few hundred yards later,
passing most of the tintops....
Victory is mine, I'll be home before I know it.
I've missed the News.
I pour my first drink and hear the Newsflash.
A fatal accident.
Roads closed. Take another route home. Traffic chaos. Motorcyclist down.
Fade to music.
Adverts.
I sit quietly, not thinking about how clever I was to arrive merely a little late.
Perspective changes, the quick merge, gaining a few places in the queue and just catching the amber lights now not as important.
I sit quietly, knowing that someone who got away from the lights more quickly than I
Didn't arrive home late.
How long did their family sit, waiting, cursing, grumbling ? Dinner's getting cold.
Perhaps until the phone rings, just before Friday night dinner.
Words by Leovinus
Read 876 times
Written on 2015-12-25 at 15:19
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POETS is an acronym - "Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Satdy!"
POETS Day
Friday afternoon.The drive home.
Out into the traffic, someone, someone please let me in.
A kind soul stopped at the lights, not in such a hurry, waves me in. I pass.
Success ! I join the queue and I'm on my way, and its POETS Day !
Too much traffic between me and the weekend.
I hesitate at the lights, and I am lost. Lost.
Five more minutes wasted. I should have applied more foot.
Ease on to the highway, annoyed by someone who changes lanes faster than I.
He's in MY spot.
I glare at him from time to time as we settle in to the Long Way Home.
He is still in front of me. His car is newer, and Bluer than mine. Bastard.
Tail lights flare, bright in the dusk.
One, then the next, then the next, leading away from me up the hill like a string of Christmas lights.
Some idiot twenty cars ahead cannot decide which way to go. Shit.
Other idiots drive in all directions, bouncing left and right.
Dammit, stationary again now.
It's not my exit, but I can take it, and rejoin a few hundred yards later,
passing most of the tintops....
Victory is mine, I'll be home before I know it.
I've missed the News.
I pour my first drink and hear the Newsflash.
A fatal accident.
Roads closed. Take another route home. Traffic chaos. Motorcyclist down.
Fade to music.
Adverts.
I sit quietly, not thinking about how clever I was to arrive merely a little late.
Perspective changes, the quick merge, gaining a few places in the queue and just catching the amber lights now not as important.
I sit quietly, knowing that someone who got away from the lights more quickly than I
Didn't arrive home late.
How long did their family sit, waiting, cursing, grumbling ? Dinner's getting cold.
Perhaps until the phone rings, just before Friday night dinner.
Words by Leovinus
Read 876 times
Written on 2015-12-25 at 15:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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