Wordy Naka

After snagging mirrors and skimming fenders
at a jammed junction
the man in the next car goes on the offensive
with the slow seethe of embers igniting
his eyes launching
flame arrows in my direction
like a tan-ta-tan Indian god
on a TV saga where missiles fly
through panes.

“Lady driver!” his complaint palpable
in his grimace
I send him a hex
eye voodoo.
Around us scooterists, cabbies, chauffeurs, bus
drivers, truckers, tempo wheeler dealers,
— all non-lady drivers —
cut lanes, don’t signal, cut signals,
blare through hospital zones,
barrel through no entries,
overtake rules.

In this rush hour tangle the gentleman
driver’s lip throbs, his stare fills
with smoulder, his palm abuses
the steering wheel, expletives
in fluent honk.

So I rev the engine
in repartee
and on a closed fist
place a one-finger salute
with ballerina-on-pointe grace
like a lady driver.