“While in the crosswalk”

She senses them.
Anticipation.
She is the only one.
Yes.
Out of her periphery,
she hears rubber inching.
People in their heads
and out their mouths
are pleading her to go
faster. Cars, Trucks, Buses;
All lined up in the turn lane,
itching in their seats to go.
But she walks slow. Deliberate.
Yes. The tension on
brakes open and close
in quick little spurts
with each step she takes.
Marvelous opposition.
As she lunges from the final lane
up onto the curb, she feels them.
An ejaculatory rush
swinging behind her.
A flood of madness.
Muscles release. Valves unlock.
Exasperated sighs of exhaust
cry relief as they move on
into time.
Bumpers urge tailpipes
to push the pedal stiffer,
opening a wider expanse
between yellow and red.
A couple quick ones
squeeze in
before muscles tighten
and a new line
begins to build up,
as she turns to wait
her turn to go back across.
She forgot her umbrella
and hadn’t realized
how wet she’d get
just crossing the street.

narrative poem written on 05-31-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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