Traffic

Cheryl Snell

This morning, before the woman
could take aim with her broom,
the mouse had squeezed back
into a baseboard hole.

A good sign. When a Mack truck
slides under the bridge with a sliver
of light to spare, fists of fingers
uncurl all over America.

At the lip of a tunnel, the urge to escape
registers. Eyes slam shut, horns harangue
bystander ears. Lit up like Las Vegas,
monitors pulse, telegraphing punches.

If a camel can pass through a needle's eye,
the brain will believe anything. In layered
darkness, facts made slippery with opinion
open to a mirage of interpretation.

It's not as if fear paralyzed me. One blink,
and the light would come back on.