I pity the roses that go unsmelt and my tongue, scorched
by the tea that I did not take the time to sip instead, downing
it like liquor shots after a busy work day and a too long chat
with my neighbor about his wife, kids, job and new grill,
and my one word reply, “lovely”
Or the horses that go unheld as my car creeps closer to bumpers in my way,
and I look up at those lethargic three circles that like automatic garage doors,
take too long to reach the bottom – and once they do I yell
“It’s green…GO! Followed by the beep of my car horn cohort.
And my snare beat fingers on the steering wheel,
the base like tapping of my left foot on the floor board, and sporadic trumpets
of Camrys and Volvos in front of me, remind of the band music colleges play
in the eighteen minutes between halves that attempt to keep me entertained
as I stuff jumbo hot dogs in my mouth and wash it down with Pepsi.
Now I know that New York never had a faster minute
where tik-toks sound like an incessant succession of T’s
and strolling has wizened and become useless - replaced by sprinting.
And old people in the fast lane just won’t do because they turn me the color
of those God-forsaken signs that read STOP.