Poem - Breakdown

Stuck on the shoulder
of the 405 in a disabled Pontiac
stupid piece of Detroit crap

Cars and big rigs zoom past
cell phone junkies heading
over the rise
into the guts of LA

Another rat race morning
another turn of the screw
another jam up on the grade

Where is the tow man?
They said he was
coming from Burbank
way the hell over there

Where’s the CHP or the
Good Samaritan? Where’s
Roadside Assistance?

Lumber is moving
pipe is moving
sod is moving
cement is moving
shiny new toilets, too

We’re not moving
by inch or foot
hazard lights blink
at indifferent faces
behind smoked glass

You can tell what the faces
are thinking:
“Poor bastards, glad that’s
not me.”

At least it’s not dark or pouring
rain, count that blessing
while we sit here
broken down
on your birthday