Eight lanes of asphalt.
Late afternoon sun, just below the brim of my baseball cap.
The hat and sunglasses aren’t enough.
I use my hand to shade my eyes from the glare,
So I can see the signal, miles away.
No heatwaves rise from the road. I don’t know why.
In the distance, the sky is white, overhead, it’s faded blue. No clouds.
The signal turns. I walk.
My head is down, so my head will block the sun.
Two right-hand turn lanes, going to highway 15,
Two lanes continuing north on Ruffin Road,
Two left-hand turn lanes for Claremont Mesa Boulevard,
Two lanes headed back south on Ruffin Road.
I’m surrounded by impatient, shiny metal. Gleaming boxes as tall as me.
Halfway across, the red hand blinks. Engines rev.
A solid red hand. I haven’t made it.
A pedestiran died yesterday in Chula Vista,
Just trying to cross the street.
How did we accomplish this?
Why are human-made places so inhuman?
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