Stoplight Season

It was a nicer place
before stop light season
and all the useless
motion while awaiting
the rise of the striped
barrier that held us
away from the train
tracks

Before we were trapped
by the slow and creeping
wait, our small dreams
deferred unto oblivion,
our plans and well-imagined
routes across the surface
of the world halted,
stymied by those who
would protect us from
our own flawed
ambition

But that was before, and
we are now bathed
in the red of the flashing
caution light, stuck
behind the locked turnstile,
awaiting change from an
unmanned toll booth at
which we are forever held
in limbo

For this is stoplight season
and any progress we had
once hoped for has been
disallowed, for without
the velocity of the road,
there can be to tragic
accidents, no catastrophic
impacts, but rather a slow,
sedate, predictable crawl
further into the guts of
dismal, postponed hours,
tires checked with dry rot
and gone flat at the
clogged exit of our own
driveways.

Patrick M. Tracy
10/10/09