I'm always a bit dismayed over the large expanses
of painted white stripes I navigate almost every day.
Thousands of cars pass over them, while I regard them as
boundaries on a battlefield, marking a slim area where
I can cross the street without myself being squashed
by the cars idling ominously at the stripes' edges,
waiting for the light to change; is one of them
going to go "offside," crossing into my territory
before the light changes?
Each time I reach the other side of the street,
I count it as a small victory against the drivers,
on their way to work with a cell phone to their ear,
or texting a message to their salon to schedule a
Brazilian wax, or their headsets tuned to the most
offensive hip-hop dreck hit for the week.
(Yo! I'm talkin' at you, muthafucka!)
Nobody looks where they're pointing their
metallic beasts and I rely on a set of white stripes
to keep them away.