Cross Traffic Will Not Stop

Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
Though we may erect a Stop sign,
Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.

Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
Whether lights flash red or green or gold,
Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
It will not.

I may plod into the intersection,
begging for mercy
with my hands upraised in deference,
my face glistening in the exquisite virgin potential of innate artlessness,
undeserving of ruin,
unencumbered by fear,
yet bearing a fervent expression that portends an inexorable cascade of youthful, unmitigated vengeance,
should the world chance to redirect so much as a feather’s touch of bodily harm against me,
All of this I may well do.

But Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
Even then it will not stop.

Even if we change the laws,
sway opinion where we must,
show contempt for passing cars,
put up roadblocks in their path,
bar the roads with tape and steel,
wood and ribbons, lead and tin,
throw up mountain after mountain
of the world’s bustling fountain
and a place to build it in,
blocked from traffic with a seal
which will mount horrific wrath
on the car that even jars
with the slightest forward thrust
any tooth within its jaws,

Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.
Event then it will not stop.

Cross Traffic Will Never Stop.

Though the universe may crumble,
flakes of earth dissipate breathlessly,
and the road darkly verge into empty, self-sympathetic freefall,
still the other cars will check us,
left and right, they will cross our path.
They will always cross our path.
And let Armageddon strike to no avail.
For lo, upon this sign, it is written:
Cross Traffic Will Not Stop.

Then let us turn right.
Let us merge with the cross traffic.
Let the other cars sit frustrated on weighty wheels as they watch us speed by, and let them read the bright signs about us, telling them how they will wear and perish, while we will never stop.  Shall we turn right?

Oh, but how the roads laugh at us!  For we, alas, are each eternally ourselves—we carry our perspectives with us, and we will never be cross traffic.  There is nothing for us but to watch the traffic as it passes by, and enjoy the brightness of the signs, the breadth of the road, the whiteness of the headlights and the redness of the taillights, and console ourselves by knowing that to someone, in a car across the great lane divide, we are indeed the cross traffic that will not stop, zooming with no lateral limitations through the infinite intersections no sign can govern, boundless and brakeless, uncurbed by any earthly jurisdiction, physical limit or fear of lawlessness.