Coming out of the local corner market,
I hear a screech of tires from the intersection.
It's the familiar drama: motorists
At loggerheads. One wants to make a left turn;
The other, with the right of way, takes umbrage
At the maneuver. They exchange the finger
And, were they armed, they'd probably trade bullets.
They lean on their respective horns, inducing
Cars jamming up behind them to do the same.

Granted, there's nothing new about the fatal
Concurrence of bad manners and bad driving:
The greatest of Greek tragedies in essence
Treats the effects of Laius's refusal
Courteously to yield to Oedipus
At that ambiguous junction of three highways.
Still, the world's population will soon reach
Eight billion souls, all wanting to be heard
And many fancying that cars and Uzis
Are proper instruments of self-expression.

With a concluding burst of profanity,
The motorists compose their differences.
A workman at the curb, having observed
The contretemps, shakes a regretful head.
People, he says to me as I pass by,
Cradling my groceries; then he lays his belly
Back on his jackhammer, and resumes drilling.