I met a man who told me about the traffic and how he
saw it everyday. He told me of streaking colors and
the lights that flowed out in streams of gold and rivers of green and fields of blood that he looked at from behind watering eyes. He told me of the noise that it made
that made him cover his eyes and ears and cry.
Good soldiers don’t cry. It goes on for hours,
the crying and the screeching and the changing of gears,
until he can’t take it any more.
I met a man who told me about the traffic and he said to me, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord,
let him take me up before I have to see the traffic again.”
Art by Emeraude Westlake '24
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