Sidewalk ▪ Driver

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On a side street of cold cement
Waiting for approbation to cross the road
Racing cars zooming in opposite directions
Do they even see all of the signs?

The green light means go;
The red light means stop.
Different signs telling me different things
And I’m forced to wait and emaciate
For the blurred visions to clear.

Painted straight white and yellow lines
Of constricted freedom.
Only pass the already broken ones,
Or else Crash and Burn.

Some race ahead to numb the pain
Because it’s all a sidelong glance of an illusion -
They don’t know that objects in the mirror
Are closer than they appear.

Taciturn drivers are manacled to
Nothing but a memory long after its passing,
Abdicating, left behind in a
Presumptuous race to the finish.

The smog smells of decaying life
Moving too fast, too slowly, or not at all
Perhaps even of time alternately
Standing subserviently still
And speeding persistently
In an intersection.

Do all things meet?
Can they see all of the signs?