Every day around this time it happens:
like greedy ants parading in untold numbers
to the world's biggest picnic
the commuters are on the move.
Roads become festered with crawling, fume-belching
combustion driven insects.
Jostling, they compete for position as if they were
worker bees moving about in the hive
looking for the queen.
Through the honeycomb of streets
buzzing with engine noise,
seeking a place only each of them knows,
the working class heads for home.
K. Tate Jacoby
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