Familiar Paths

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.