Hour of Red

The rain began, a slow,

insistent tap on the glass,

smearing the world.

Brake lights ahead,

a hundred nervous hearts,

pulsing red.

I watched the drops

slide down, then catch,

then stretch and distort

the light,

a smeared, frantic blur.

The engine hum,

a low, constant growl,

and the air conditioning,

trying to fight the damp.

A half-eaten granola bar wrapper,

silver and crinkled,

a small flag of surrender

on the passenger seat.

I tried to think

of work, of lists,

of what I had to do,

but the thoughts,

they swarmed, they came.

The undone things,

the forgotten calls,

the bills piled high,

a quiet despair.

The world outside,

a blur of motion stopped,

but inside my head,

everything moved,

too fast, too real.

Just this hum, this red,

this tight knot

in my chest,

and the rain

that won't let up.