On My Drive Home From Dropping Off Zoey This Morning

I exit the freeway and notice two men walking along the sidewalk that has probably been used maybe twice. (Just so you know, this isn't going anywhere, Chekhov's gun there where the sidewalk ends.) They are both wearing gray suits, the fabric a little too shiny, and I guess that they are realtors, hands stuffed in their pockets as they survey something for some reason on a Tuesday morning via the frontage road. (Why else?)
At the next light I stop behind an old Toyota Celica covered with bumper stickers. Coexist, something swirly, Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup. On her rearview mirror I see a crystal and it's swinging, though I don't know why I assume the driver is a woman; I cannot see for sure. Still I wonder who she is, imagine that she lives way up high in the damp of Mt. Tam in a wooden house with a rotting foundation. What makes her laugh, this woman who buys then unpeels and sticks a quote that may or may not be Monty Python on the back window of her car?

It's usually in traffic that I get this way, all of us hermetically sealed in our own worlds of utmost importance. Each of us with a story unraveling right this very second--don'tforgettobuymilkdoeshestilllovemewhereismychapstickgodilovethissong--what makes our hearts creak hollow or packed full, (and why would we ever feel alone when we are stopped at the same red light)?

This isn't melancholy. What this is, more or less, is what it's always been.