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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Traffic Light on Payday Weekend”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Three small sermons in my chest—stop, hope, go—leased by the second. Lenses sweat; tar shimmers. Bonnet heat climbs my spine; hawkers migrate. Till slips flutter like white moths. Red tastes like patience with a pepper of hooters. Amber is a dare in a yellow jersey. Green is everybody’s miracle at once. I count near‑misses as blessings with bruises, then blink the city forward anyway. Wait. Look. Go—gently.
Alternative version
I hold three small sermons in my chest— stop, hope, go—each leased by the second. Bonnet heat climbs my spine; hawkers migrate. Receipts flutter like downy birds. Red tastes like patience with a pepper of hooters. Amber is a dare in a yellow jersey. Green is everybody’s miracle at once. I count near-misses as blessings with bruises, then blink the city forward anyway. Wait. Look. Go anyway.
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