I am such a diva in traffic. No one here knows
how to merge. There are two seasons in Chicago:

nine months of winter and three months of road
construction. The name of this street escapes

me, one lane is closed. There's a song
on the radio, the window is open. I make the shape

of a bird on the brink. I do this thing
with my arms, I sag like a tulip, I am so pretty

in this humidity. My foot on the brake
resembles a root of one length or another.

A pull in my muscle, call it a wounded fit
of vanity, like shouting back at an ex- or keening

for an old terra-cotta. An ache in my bones,
I groove, I lip, I am sorting everything

inside, one life born in congestion from one
stuck in gridlock. One female voice

I like to borrow. I reach, I pout, my right
hand to the roof, up and down, breathe,

breathe, it won't be long
now, breathe.