The Delay

It's killing me, this molasses, driven to carefully,
saving points on accidents, or none to make like
we never drive reckless bumpers, a morass of
paintaking consideration for ones neighbor -
and who is that but lights made like the sun.

Baking now, we wait for a dawn that never
appears in seconds, counting as walking is so
efficient an exercise in breathing, freely we see
them making progress over coffee -  hear, steaming,
ready to be spilled on careless speedy engines.

It's noon already, the sun, the moon, even the
stars voice their concern with what takes place
when intersections collide, and smart maniacs
make their way through awnings for cows, smart
though as drivers study, and manicure their cud.

What's in a construction, working all day to 
wear bright and appropriate, glaring all the same -
the necessary anarchy of closing trails and segways
for motocross and adventures to dream, to stay,
to wait and parlay the dirty window.

© 2015 Larry Ingram