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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Green Robot Crossing”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The green robot blinks its permission over the wet paint of the crossing. You wait beside me with both hands inside your jacket pockets, as if the night has asked for nothing. A taxi combs water through the gutter. The count begins: ten, nine, eight. We step off late. Halfway across, the signal changes but the road is not yet ours or finished with us. On the far kerb, you laugh at something I did not hear. The small green man goes dark.
Lyrics
(tick-tick) The robot blinks above the road. My shoe is hanging off the kerb. A white taxi shakes the bridge. Your last message has one word. The fruit stall packs its plastic crates. Rain draws maps across the tar. I count the seconds at the light. I see how far I am. You said, wait until it clears. But waiting is a room with no door. The signal changes in my face. I cannot stand here anymore. (huh) When the green man flashes. I am moving on. When the green man flashes. I am moving on. I fold the phone into my hand. The screen goes black before I do. A boy kicks water at the drain. His mother calls him through the blue. I cross between the waiting cars. I hear the tyres hiss and sing. The road is not a promise made. It is the choice to step in. (tick-tick) I thought leaving meant a map. It means one foot, then the next. (shh-shh) I am not waiting for the rain. I am walking through it. When the green man flashes. I am moving on. When the green man flashes. I am moving on. (ah-ah)
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