The Covenant of Traf­fic Laws

Foreword Reviews - - Spotlight Reviews Poetry -

We call them coun­try stops, these rolling stops. My brother once

told me not to wear out my turn sig­nal on the back roads.

In the left-turn-only lane, I rarely sig­nal. It is the left-turn-only

lane. Turn­ing right, I swing wide, cross­ing the dot­ted line.

The frica­tive’s mal­con­tents: lips, teeth & tongue.

When “im­prop­erly sig­nal­ing a lane change,” I think I am one step closer to death. But then I think my white­ness pro­tects me. How dare I think that, I think,

I think, how dare I not think that.

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