Poetry

The traffic lights

Street corners, shadowed by spray painted brickwork that refuses to lend light. Standing above the terraces, piercing the clouds, I face it all. All the while displaying your ever-changing heart in wounds my body recently discovered.

Our eyes seldom meet in the faint moonlight. Yours are cotton wool balls, mine red. Road rage driving you further away from the delayed destination.

You hope for a green light, wanting to be certain that your speed will not be reckless. I see you sitting there through a constant amber gaze, counting digits under leather gloves.

Jack Field