Holding my mother's hand,
I'm standing at the intersection,
Where cars speed past,
And as young as I am, I follow her
command.
Though the light across is not white,
I follow her into the street,
And wonder why the cars don't drive,
But stay still, dazzling in the bright
sunlight.
I stand on the corner, the button
recently pressed,
Waiting for the light to beckon me
across,
And spend my time observing,
Adults crossing in the traffic,
unimpressed.
Alone I wait, but with others I walk,
Divided internally between law and
custom,
Until one day I consciously disobey,
And enter the imaginary safety of the
crosswalk.
Leaving school, passing through
downtown,
One can't remember what's been
forgotten,
A childish behavior of little
consequence,
But the mind searches for it, while the
face frowns.
Main Street is an entrancing mix of
sights and sound,
With friends and acquaintances moving
round,
Greeting pleasant and habitual fill the
air,
And as I wander, I stop suddenly,
transfixed by a car horn blare.
Poetry Series
2016:
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