Far away the sirens are racing to the fire; far away somebody’s home is burning. A family standing at the curb in jammies awaiting the word, on the corner traffic signals dumbly turning. Green turns to yellow and yellow to red. It’s gonna turn green again.
Somewhere else a man walks homeward halfway through November, wood smoke blowing sweetly on the breeze. Five o’clock is darker than he ever could remember, and winter doesn’t start for three more weeks. Green turns to yellow and yellow to red. It’s gonna turn green again.
Ooh, her silence is telling me what I already told her. Ooh, and the future’s killing me. I can feel the cold on the shoulder.
Farther off there is the soft dawn of another morning on the other side of the night. Banging pots and lingering thoughts from dreams that still are forming and that will keep taking shape for life. Green turns to yellow and yellow to red. It’s gonna turn green again.