Jay-Walker
June 15 2007


A grey expanse of asphalt
all cracked-up and pot-holed,
scarred with slick black strips of tar
— like stitches or stretch-marks.
And traffic whizzing past,
2 lanes in each direction.
This is how a man is tested
in paved-over cities in the new Millennium,
where the only prey walks upright
and carries a briefcase.

A calculated dash
calibrating speed and position and intent
in a game of mental chess
with drivers,
who are blissfully unaware of soft pink flesh.
Sometimes I catch an eye
like wildebeest and lion,
each of us gauging the odds.
And sometimes I glare defiant,
self-righteous in my right-of-way.
And sometimes, I hesitate
hoping the gorgeous blonde in her sleek red Mazda
tips-up her tinted glasses
and smiles,
or at least tosses her hair and laughs.

My path is start/stop and zig/zag
dodging obstacles like a friendly match
of murder-ball.
Or one of the first primitive video games
— where I’m the glowing green dot
who must plot his way across,
spotted so many points to begin.
So it’s either win big;
or a very quick finish.