That Morning Ride Trapped in Stillness

The cab crept forward—stalled breath beneath

flickering lights on the cracked dashboard.

Driver’s voice, low and worn, stitched in curses,

grids locking us in this stale, burning trap.

Horn cracked the thin veil of half-sleep,

a sudden shock, gut-punched between ribs.

Outside, the city bruised under early smog,

and inside, the fumes pressed like old regrets.

I leaned back, trapped with my own tiredness,

stuck between places, moments, and the cracked glass.

The meter ticks, slow and mocking,

a rhythm that counts out the grind,

the waiting, the slow erosion

of time lost in the stubborn clutch

of morning’s stubborn drag.