Flitting through Feeds at a Red Light

Whose words these are I always know.
Their names appear above/below.
They will not see my glancing sight,
to read their words within the flow.

My idling car, at some red light,
unthinking waits without delight
for me to press the gas once more
and cleave the darkness of the night.

It exhales gas, metallic snore;
no reason in its quiet roar.
The only other sound's the preen
of messages and apps galore.

The words are empty, oft obscene,
but I have other feeds to screen,
and seconds to go before the green,
and seconds to go before the green.