al-Aged

al-Aged

There’s a stretch on Bathurst

where almost every day at least one

stoplight’s knocked out,

a cop on point duty,

traffic cones around the city

works truck funnelling us

jerkily and grumpily

into a single lane.

It’s old people. Old

drivers. You see them standing

beside their big, slightly dented cars,

sprigs of egret white hair

awry under questioning.

They feel heart spasms,

heart attacks, lose control

or coordination, have

Alzheimer’s or just normal

drifting minds. They’re too

short, usually, for the solid old sedans

they prefer, reducing visibility.

I do my share of cursing

and gesticulating, mostly

at the other assholes merging,

but somehow, even when I’m

stuck a long time,

it cheers me to see this

mild natural terrorism,

the mostly powerless and ignored

casually punching holes in the grid.