Tarmac or concrete, pick your poison.
The only truth of the matter is
painted lines crossing car causeways
are our green light, our call to
voyage out there, past seas of traffic
into cushions of green.

I stand alone, finger lightly pressing
button, waiting with ticks as my seconds
count down. Red, red, red, red, go!
Green bathes and permission granted,
even though no vehicle nor version of
person has been sighted.

The rules are clear, mimicking my road
and I must use the designated lanes,
for anarchy (a sort of preferable outcome
for many other life sections) does not
belong when safety rears its haunches,
for a stickler I be, and I shall abide.