People scurrying and hurrying
on two feet or two wheels or four wheels.
Some honk, cut off, let in,
appear and disappear while one
pudgy woman puts on makeup at the stop light next to a

business man with a black suit straightening his dull orange tie,
pulling up aside a boy, seventeen or so, not quite a man in his
speedy red lambourgine that Daddy bought, no doubt,
checking out the dumb blond waitress walking on the sidewalk

who passes a father biking with his little girl in the baby seat.
All headed off to somewhere, no doubt,
all busy and rushing and swinging hands and swerving cars.

Everyone on his own schedule in her own world,
on the same roads with the same signs and lights
that dictate each one’s “right of way.”  But
a man designed that corner, who would stop and go and when—

Green light

And that Daddy’s boy will pass the gum-chewing waitress, quickly
     speeding by
the baby getting bike-ridden in someone else’s power.
The orange tie wearer will inevitably end up at work or home or one
     and the same
And the plump woman will have to finish her makeup at the next
     light, no doubt.

Time is a creation of many a man.

written in 2003