Matchmaking on the highway…

Matchmaker

Another slow and agonizing commute
from the southern suburbs to my home north
and I have to find a way to pass the time,
do some good or at least no harm.

Behind me is a mouth-breathing Neanderthal
eating aggressively – beef jerky and nuts maybe,
alternating his well-balanced diet of commuter snacks,
but so distracted that he is constantly slamming
on his brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front
which is mine and I am to blame he indicates
with extended middle finger, for being here
so inconveniently obstructing his progress
to some world-changing destiny; I see it all
in my rear-view mirror and he makes me nervous
in so many, many ways.

In front – intermittently – is a little red car,
with its brown-haired female distracted
by her phone, her radio, her hair,
something in her eye, her phone again,
and the apparent lack of lift or something in her hair
which she tries to remedy as she moves back
and forth from my lane to the next and back again
without consulting her mirrors or signaling
her capriciousness with a light so designed;
she must be perfect and all must defer.

Caveman-in-mid-meal behind, and she-self
primping in front – the two seem made for each other,
it occurs to me, if only they would meet – but how
on a road crowded with thousands of others, nervously
and impatiently cursing each and every one of
the thousands of others who presume to slow
one’s evolution and inconvenience their life.

And then my moment appears, as he reaches
for something dropped across the seat (but
certainly not a napkin) and she discovers
an unevenness in her brow that must be corrected
for the world to continue its revolutions,
as I quietly slip into the next lane and it happens,
for she has not signaled and he has not looked up
in time to stop the fender-bender that will
unite this perfect couple in their destiny
and I am their matchmaker – driving on.

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