Green Means Go

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.