Automated Passage

Another sunrise bleeds, dull as rust,

over the same five lanes of metal and dust.

My turnpike ritual, a daily trudge,

watching the meter tick, holding a grudge

against the hours, the fuel, the endless hum.

Today, I saw him, two cars ahead, glum,

that beaten-up sedan, same tired face,

a small nod, a shared, silent disgrace.

We're all here, paying for the right to go,

to move this slow, this ordinary flow.

Then the green light, impersonal, bright,

releases us, just for a moment, to light.

Like a machine's mercy, a brief, cold grace,

before we enter the next concrete place.