Poem: "Double Red Light Broken :: A Morning Of Kid Drop-off On Repeat, Until..."

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Double Red Light Broken

Second Day of Middle School

A gaggle of kids swarmed on their bikes
around the opposing double line of cars going to and from drop-off.
Eyes on the road!
Both hands on wheel.
Because these kids own the road and swerve into and over a crosswalk or a grasswalk at whim.
Will we ever get the 5 minutes to school?
All these kids peddling everywhere,
calling to each other,
covered in a world of their soft padded headphones.

Drop-off reached.
Pull into the first lane!!
I can’t - there are cones in that lane.
I have to stay in the second lane.
Noooooo!!!
Pull over!! Let us out!!
I can’t - the teachers say pull all the way forward. They say don’t lane cross or pass cars. They say be patient.
Noooooo!!!!!
Let us out!!
Pick us up at 3:40!!
3:40? Side eye.
Yeah. I mean 2:40. Wink and a smile.
Empty. Exhale.

Driving back the 5 minutes to the next child who is still in bed.
The car radio on.
Songs suggest lost love too early in the morning.
The DJ reads the morning headlines.
A reprieve from the music.

Driving away, finally noticing the faces in the oncoming cars, still aching to reach drop-off on time.
Laughing faces.
Straight faces.
Survival faces.
We’re all just piles of mush in our morning cars. In the 8am hour of the day.
Grateful to be here.
But in the same loop.
Seeing the same tree.
The same stop light.
Stopped.
No turn on red.
Inching forward.
Someone turns right.
The next end of summer love song comes on.
We move up a car length.

How did that happen?
Red light remains.
The same house with the same fence that got built last spring.
The same ditch. The same red white and blue painted stairs with the initials. Bless that person of the initials who is probably dead.
Inching forward again.
Why are we moving? It’s a red light. No turn on red.
Headlines on the radio begin and end.
Music starts.
The day won’t begin until email is opened. Don’t check email. You’re driving. Stay out of reality a little longer.

The cars move forward again.
The light is still red. No turn on red.
Honking begins.
Pulling us out of that morning trance that asks: “Where am I? Why am I still here?”
Passing the track now. Am going to run across the track later. After drop-off. The entire city is my track. And I can’t get off it.
The cars move forward.
Why? The light is still red!

Oh. The light is broken.
Cars are turning up ahead.
Out of order.
In the intersection.
Where the child on the bike was hit 3 springs ago.
“I thought she already passed me,” said the driver who hit her. Was she blind?
Red light remains.
Honking picks up.
I’m 5th in line so it’s not my fault.
The light is really broken.
It’s been red the whole time.

We must strike out.
Into the green light of the crossing cars.
Morning trance of self-pity gone.
Survival mode now.

Next kid drop-off is on the bike.
1st grader likes to ride his red bicycle.
And so we we ride.
My tires are flat.
Both of them.
I ride on rims.
Hello crossing guard! Nice to see you!
How’s your day?
Better now that I’ve seen you!

We make it to school no problem.
He parks his red bike.
Takes off his helmet.
Straightens his backpack.
A mom in a pink short terrycloth bathrobe walks the entire length of the drop-off with a cup of coffee. This is not a costume. This is just how she came.

Perfect.