Waiting one day for the light to change,
They might instead decide it never will.
She might open the Lexus’ shiny door
And sashay away from Utica Square
Past the I-Hop, Wendy’s, and the hospital
Down 21st street, past the park to Peoria,
Where she’d make a left toward Brookside.
Meanwhile, back at the frozen light,
He might reach across her empty seat
And pull to closed that dangling door,
Floor the pedal and race across
The after-all-vehicleless intersection,
Rubber screeching and peeling
Over the summermelt asphalt.
She’d have now walked 20 blocks
To sit in the Brookside Bar
At five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon
And throw back shots of tequila
While telling anyone who’d listen
Lies about her life as a local actress
Who was an extra in The Outsiders.
He’d head north at a high rate of speed,
Take 244 east past the tiny airport,
Merge onto I-44, crowded with cars
Cruising to the Hard Rock Casino
The Cherokees run in Catoosa.
Soon he’d set the cruise on 78,
Follow the signs toward St. Louis.
She’d let some random handsome cad
Carry her to his pad and fuck her.
“Well, that’s done,” she’d think,
And she’d never drink tequila again.
She’d get a job teaching kindergarten,
And she’d join the Catholic Church,
And she’d live someone’s life, now hers.
He’d barely glance at the famous arch,
Take I-70 through Illinois, Indiana,
Stopping only for coffee and Red Bull,
Popping his last few ADD pills,
Leaving the car in lower Manhattan
Near the exit from the Holland Tunnel,
And walking north on Greenwich Street.
You might say this wouldn’t happen,
That people just don’t act in this way.
And you’d be right, of course. In fact,
They went home and watched TV,
Got up the next day and went to work.
Wait! There’s one other possibility—
Perhaps they’re still sitting at the light.
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