Four Way Stop

pausing dramatically

at Y.

I see the inherent order in things

traffic neither hasty nor stalled

it's night so the stars

are like bursting artillery shells:

they describe but fail to analyze.

Luckily, the war is being sanitized

to prevent infection. On the other hand

red mist is hinted at,

each industrial sundown.

Loose papers rolling along in the wind,

pages out of some book, maybe a titty

flies out of the dark behind time and passes

through headliight glare,

wouldn't that be a thrill,

rotating forward into shadows.

The problematic nature of time

(like the unexpected turd

marring the yard,

[left behind by some dog

urgently absorbed])

as I await the next bus.

Bravo!