Every evening at about five
The road before our apartment fills.
Both lanes are packed,
Tempers flare, horns blare,
Diesel fumes rise.
For some, the minutes are too much
And they attempt a shortcut
On the alluring open expanse
Of our service drive.
But hopes are dashed
For there is no exit off it.
Their impatience is rewarded
With a choice between
Drop off or retreat.
Mistakes seem like that--
A dead end
Where we can only backpedal
Or fall flat on our faces
And partake of humility.
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