Late Night Jazz
Traffic dribbles across the bridge
Sporadic, like the last drops of milk being shaken out
over a bowl of cereal.
Drip. Drip. Stop.
It is late.
A red light atop the cityscape flashes,
beckons: Come Closer.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
This red doesn’t men stop, it means don’t stop coming,
but the cars in the dark take no notice.
Conditioned by years of stop-and-go
they are blind to difference,
as, wrapped up in their radios’ late night jazz
they cross still waters
and are reflected without a ripple
Far, far below