Standstill Standstill

Its engine is running but my car is out of gear. This is the place to feel bad about going nowhere. There’s an emergency on the street up ahead; a truck has stalled; bumpers have been bumped; words have been spoken; tempers lack temper; too many cars have gridlocked the block, and the radio exacerbates my exasperation with news of corruption, murder, mismanagement. Gandhi himself could not clean up this mess, starting here and extending where there is greed and hatred. A practical person would have less hope. I could get downtown more quickly by walking, but I won’t leave my car on the street unless I should walk ahead and knock some heads, but that would be out of character. I am bolted tightly by a strap to the floor; I am screwed by my wrists to the wheel. I have made up my mind; I have signed my name; I am keeping my promises; I’m not insane. If I got three wishes, laws of nature would be in jeopardy. It would be inconvenient to change my petty plans; I would prefer to improve the recent past. I would prefer if people felt less threatened. I think maybe it will open up in a minute. The gas in my tank is running out, but I can’t say whether I should turn off the key.