A Stoplight

Michael Parke, Staff Writer

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A yellow-framed box of three colors:
swings in the turbulent winds in the street,
moving the wire to and fro,
to and fro,
creating a dire circumstance to those loops holding
the dear thing together

wood creaks on both sides, both pillars leaning
inwards towards the street, but
as they seem, the material,
unfazed, premium cut
wood glazed with something to keep it dry just
holds onto those metal fixtures—
however, the line sags lower and
boldly intruding upon the street marked with
those neat white and yellow dashes so
insistent on preventing rash decisions

finally the silence breaks after
a fine wind shakes loose the bolts,
and the box falls,