the pressure grows
the warning lights come through the cracks
but well prepared, we stay composed

we transfer its woes
through pipes and through smokestacks
from tunnels below

but it’s all for show
for though the trees still shade our backs
for now, the system’s closed

the roads that bookend neighborhoods
bracket working hours too;
the maps they make of an hour’s stroll
fly over my head in my dreams

i, fancy primate,
with my new phone
burning a hole in my pocket
killing bylines
am buzzing with greed
and any social media will bury the lede
but the accompanied eye will see

by the tennis courts
a seasonal emptiness wanes
pushbrooms and golf carts
create lanes
we trim our beards and clear our drains
till only what we want remains

headed south on
twenty-first street
taking my time
to the absolute delight
of the driver behind

a cloud of peace
infuses the world

and patient walkers know
what patient drivers see
that patterns made in practice
as part of a plan to be
end up embossed
in the traffic that plays out
when life is shuttled
from red to green