Transparent satellite, spinning, struggling. Solitary. Futile and helpless blemish bound at the center of a black-hole intersection.
Blacktop void.
This is a plastic cup stranded in the middle of a four-way stop.
Twin-pair of apocalyptic, doomsday-red beacons, steady and seething, simmer. Hell-gaze unwavering, unending.
Then broken. Blinded, during highway eclipse.
Replaced by stoplight supernovas, pulsating yellow glimpses of causeway caution. Roads given up to the renegades who writhe and snarl at the timed, color-coded pauses and permissions-to-proceed of daylight travelers.
This is being present at the exact moment the traffic lights shut down for the night, along Route One.
