HUNGERFORD STREET

The light is red.
Traffic stationary. Purring. Waiting.
Tension mounting. A precipitous moment
Of apprehension. Tension.

A few honks, a blare, here and there.

A tribe of wildebeests muted on the savannah,
Making their way through the grasslands,
To the next water hole.
Wait. In apprehension. Tension.
On the banks of the swamp with quiet breath,
To the dance of hooves and cruel death.
A tussle of horns, here and there,
The irritation of flies in the air,
Wait. To wade across the stream,
Of crocodiles in a gleam,
Playing hide and seek,
And little bo-peep.
A time for fangs and claws,
And wise saws. Apprehension. Tension.

Their leader emits a snort.
The light turns green for the right.
The rest start their engines in a diastole motion,
Smooth.
Like a moisturizing lotion.
The glistening bodies swerve right,
In a screech, like leeches slithering down
A mossy beech.
Like relaxing elastic,
In plastic perfection, the cars strain right.
And the gaping lane swallows them.
In large mouthfuls, gulps and gasps.
Swallows them in
To the last tyre and axle,
The last face peering out the window,
The shopping bags at the back,
The puppy on the lap,
The smiles, cheers, tears and fears,
Of lives lived and deaths doled,
All swallowed, wallowed into the waiting road.

Across the stream, their leader turns back to see
His community. Of what’s left of those eyes keen,
And the what-might-have-been.