Years ago.
I knew a man full of surprise.
He was learning to drive.
In his large clunker, he took pride.
He took me for a ride.
The light was green, he stopped at the scene.
The light went red, he hit the gas instead.
I said, "Go at green, stop at red."
He looked at me and spoke with pride,
"Not for me. I am from USSR.
I am from Communist country.
Red means go."
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Dirge
PoetryA variety of mostly dark poetry, both real world and imaginary. #482 dragon 6/19/18-#424 survival 6/19/18-#159 prose 6/19/18
