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It's All the Rage


Drive twenty-five in a fifty-five,
wait until everyone has passed you on the right,
then move out of the fast lane as I try to pass,
but don’t be offended when I call you a bastard,
pound my fist and shout that you are a son of a bitch,
throw you the finger and scream that you go fuck yourself.

Swerve in front of me and slow to a crawl,
having seen the need to settle in my lane
when the two alternatives won’t do,
but don’t be surprised when I ride your ass for twenty miles,
one foot away from your bumper and holding,
no matter how hard you try to shake me.

Search under the seat for a spare cigarette,
fix your makeup in your rearview mirror,
talk on your cell phone, gesticulating wildly,
swerving across lanes at various speeds,
but don’t be angry when I follow you home,
smashing your car with my baseball bat.

Do whatever you want
regardless of laws or courtesy,
oblivious to safety and sanity,
confident in your SUV’s impervious crash rating,
your junker’s barely-insured dispensability,
but be prepared for the day you go too far,
earning a bullet from this passing driver.


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It's All the Rage, by Paul Cales, © November 2003