Fourway

At a four-way stop where the red lights flash

But the green light shines in a steady stream

Arising pale and ghostlike from my dash

Lights inside and out guide me guide me through this dream.

Rock-stars on the radio wail my pain

Children in the streets laugh at dirty jokes

Overhead is the sound of landing planes

While my passenger sits and silently smokes

I smell my engine burning gasoline

And my passenger’s burning cigarette

I smell a barbecue that can’t be seen

And the sweet odors of half-baked regrets

But all the cars pass and I take my turn

Down a road to see what else I can learn

Benjamin J. Cline

March 19, 2001