Luminary

The night is a crude piss
spread out seismically
like a fan of rivers.
I yawn as it muscles for my attention,
tearing me from the wipers and
the shindig of cars dancing skin to skin
in the midst of the rush hour in Bajada.
Yellow.
Slow down.
Red.
Brake.
There’s a pretense suspended
in the polluted air that not even the rain
or the mist of windows can dispel.
Thoughts teleport to a parallel world
where the same conundrum is distracted by
hurrying hands and skidding lips… bodies.
An impatient honk.
Green.
Go.
Must move forward.
A little more and finally,
the traffic lights
learn to love wide lanes.