Stopped in a knot of traffic that even draino couldn't unclog,
the bus heaving & belching its toxic fumes,
sit I, like the Bandit Queen, bandana pulled up high over my nose,
baseball cap pulled low over my eyes,
peering thru them as slits to guard against dust and
the neighboring bus of men who raise eyebrows, stare,
call "hullo madam", ogle, hiss and irritate.
Eardrums deafened by the horn, lungs painted in pollution,
I wonder.
Do I prefer idling and ogling?
or the menace of the willy nilly Indian road system
where drivers play chicken --tho' it's no game--
at high speed darting and weaving, just barely overtaking
the oxen & cart
the vespa
colonial-era cars
White knuckles & suacer eyes.
Intense enough to be latest Sega video game
Virtual consequences in reality.
weaving.
overtaking.
nearing & veering precarious precipices beckon
How does the traffic cop stay sane?
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