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.