Traffic lights in the City, a poem

There’s no telling when the Muse will strike. I can be anywhere or with anyone and the lightning strikes. All of a sudden a line comes and it won’t leave me alone. Something must be done or else I won’t be able to live with myself. The fear is always that it will never strike again if I don’t take up the challenge. That’s why it drives some poets to drink. Out of fear.

So I am heading home from work, several months ago. I came to a stop light, and the first line of this one dropped on me from the sky. Within a half hour, I had eight lines and no more. Everyday since I have been studying these eight lines and hoping for more. But there is no more.

Traffic lights in the City
red to green, then back again,
a traffic flow rhythm,

a car horn improvisation
joined by an ensemble of trumpets
with ripples of sound

blasting the nerves of Jericho town
down and into the dust.

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