The Little Highways

The little highways of anger riddle your heart,
Mercury globules spill through the tunnels.
In a crowded restaurant you find it difficult to swallow,
You are eating your children alive.
The calendar on the wall is tattered,
The things you have to do
You should have done long ago.
Solid as iron are the molecules of oxygen
That spin before your eyes.
The road you walk upon
Of soft dark red
Extends darkly forward,
And the walls of the corridor pulse solemnly
As you walk to a small bright room
Where you will be allowed to meet your children
Again.