Daydreaming at Rush Hour
By Robert S. King

I fancy the red light is that rose
I’ve been told to stop and smell.
In the wind the bulb sways back and forth,
leaving a bloody streak on the sky,
a kind of rainbow after storms of wrecks.
Blue streaks keep passing me by:
smears on a street dead at both ends.
But in slow motion the red light of the rose wilts.
Something green blooms.
I press down on the pedal and spring.

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