This is a traffic light.
A small car
without a fender
sits idle.
A flashing yellow
pulsates off the hood.
This is a sign.
P
for
Park.
There are no headlights
north west
east south.
There are no
tractor beams
from the sky.
There are no sounds
but the wind.
And it whistles
across the open sunroof.
She speaks in small tongues
with few words
but a strong song
to them.
This is stopping.
Feet resting on the driver's seat,
Indian-style
they told us in school.
They don't say that anymore.
I don't do that anymore.
But this.
This is stopping.
The yellow
flash is slow
and labored breathing,
the kind you do when sleeping
well, on a night with
a nice breeze.
So I don't hurry.
No comments:
Post a Comment