Peak Hour

Parallel snakes, inch ahead

Laying side by side

Wriggle and slither in their place

Unable to move

It’s traffic peak, lined up in queues

Kissing hind, of those in front

Farting at the rest behind

Should see faces, behind wheels

Grim and joyless, on the edge

Mouthing profanities, shaking heads

Or staring blankly far ahead

From rickety ones, to swanky cars

Bikes and pedestrians

All at war

No one can ever win

But then, that’s what traffic jams are

Great levellers of urban life