(about 1992)
I push the break pedal with my foot.
The car comes to a stop behind the white line.
I stare at the red light. Red means "stop."
I begin to imagine red means "go."
Maybe it could . . .
something changes in the atmosphere . . .
my brain doesn't care-- it just imagines.
Wavelengths bounce opposite, irregular,
whatever it would take--
twice as long, twice as tall.
Anyhow, I look at the sky-- it is orange.
The trees by the road have red leaves.
Construction-worker signs are blue,
my apple is summer-green.
I remember the 'frootloops' in my bowl that morning--
how they were purple, blue, and green.
I look up at the light;
it is green.
Somewhere behind me, a driver honks a horn.
My brain kicks back to normal--
green still means "go."
I push on the gas pedal and enter the intersection,
as a car swerves to miss me,
and the sky is orange.
