Shawn L. Bird

Oh, belligerent woman

at the gas station.

You know you are wrong.

You see the arrows.

Instead of backing up

You drive forward,

and make obnoxious remarks.

The other ten of us

can follow directions.

One of these things is not

like the others.

You’re embarrassed.

I get that.

So apologize, and back up.

Don’t yell at me.

I’m going the right way.

I am an author, though.

So while you rant,

I have the satisfaction

of seeing the bomb

the terrorists have set

that you accidentally trigger

by going the wrong way.

As your car explodes in a fiery

conflagration,

the ten cars that are secure

in our rule following

are protected by our bubble of sanctity.

We smile contentedly

knowing karma is at work,

as the litter of your dissatisfied life

rains from the sky,

bouncing off of us and

our aligned automobiles.

As you back out,

muttering a chastened,

“Sorry,”

I am glad that imagination

trumps aggravation

every time.

.

.

It’s a popular saying, “Don’t mess with authors.  They will put you in their novels, and kill you.”  Today, I discovered the poetic equivalent. 😉