The light spilled green onto asphalt cracks,
an invitation painted in traffic semaphore.
But the car in front of me—a monument,
a statue to inattention, wheels braced in silence.
I tapped the horn, a polite prod,
like clearing a throat in crowded rooms.
The car moved sluggishly, stubborn wheels obeying,
and as I passed, I looked inside.
Her fingers, busy with tiny letters,
her gaze tethered to a glowing screen.
She turned, saw me for the first time,
and her middle finger split the air.
It was a gesture so predictable,
so absurd in its tiny rebellion,
that something broke loose inside me—
a laugh, raw and unforgiving, escaped.
It rolled from my chest, brighter than the light,
uncontrollable, ridiculous, a fountain of joy,
and I saw her face twist tighter, shocked,
a red flush crossing her cheeks like sirens.
She wasn’t ready for laughter, for levity,
for some stranger to untangle her static.
And I drove onward, grinning at the power
of humor, sharper than any honk could sound.