Red Light. Green Light. 1. 2. 3.

He stands no more
than five four,
like a lawn dwarf
on a fresh cut Sunday
he owns nothing
that hasn’t already been mowed,
raked,
bagged,
and shipped away from him.

Dedicated sundial to this intersection,
the corona of his smile
could eclipse the sun,
and he wears time
like classics.

He doesn’t believe in magic
or saints,
and knows of no Mary to hail
no Rosary to recite;
so he bargains his dignity
for bread,
honor for rags,
and whatever’s left
of what life hasn’t taxed
for anything
to keep him human.

His name
you don’t care to know,
his occupation
kept your conscience clean,
your husband home
for one more night,
your wife appeased,
and your children?
still dreaming to be
the few,
the proud…

His life
is as inconvenient
as this yellow light,
his agenda
starts on red,
bids you stop
your conference call,
the news briefs,
Wallstreet,
your ego from saying no,
but his future
is one you leave behind
at every green light.

After five quarters,
four dimes,
a broken pride
for the third hungry night;
he reaches for a hymn to hum
pinned to the walls
in the basement
of his sub conscious;
never really believing
that there is
an eye on the sparrow. 

As the light flashes green
for the last time tonight
he dares a deity
to reject him also.
Content and smiling he whispers,
“Redlight.

Greenlight.

1.

2..

…”

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