Go Play in Traffic
While the other boys were out
swinging for the fences
of their father’s battered dreams,
our man was working the streets;
playing red rover red rover
please don’t run me over
with body-waxed range rovers
and naturally-blended taxi cabs
because he never learned the chorography
required to catch a curve.
But man, could he move. Every morning
he played that four-way intersection
like a game of four square.
He jumped over the bumpers
of imported jalopies,
played duck, duck, goose
with the hoods of luxury sedans,
did pirouettes around PT cruisers;
knew the sideline boundaries,
the safe zones,
like a good QB.
He could have gone straight to the league
if there were one. Instead
he grew proportional to a size L
shirt of a coffee shop his father
was a regular at in his younger years,
simply because there is no better job for a broken man
than to break change for double shots of espresso
behind counters he buffed every day after hours.
And when he finally called it a day,
after the last penny had been checked present,
he would cross the street
that he had been staring at all day
through the shop windows;
the same intersection where his father
was found engaged in a game of twister:
left hand on green,
no right on red,
racing to king his crowning child.