The Warning.

Traffic has come to a halt.

It’s that kid again.

The one that is always standing in the

Middle of the road,

Pantomiming.

 

“What do you want now?”

Cries a frantic woman

From a cream colored Honda.

Her three, young children in the backseat

Have gone mad with boredom

And have begun playing their favorite game;

“Who can break mommy first.”

 

The kid in the road puts his hands up

On either side of his face

With his palms facing outward

And begins to gallop like a horse.

 

“Fucking say something, kid

Or get the fuck out of the road!”

Demands a truck driver,

Spitting sparks as he talks

Like a metal object

Being drug beneath

A large vehicle.

 

The look on the kid’s face is

Both solemn as well as sincere.

It’s a look of desperation,

Frustration

And fear.

 

He takes his right hand and

Traces a large circle in the air,

Then he puffs his cheeks

Like a blowfish

And begins to push down

With great force

On some invisible,

Yet (seemingly),

Weighty object.

 

“Goddamnit kid, I got places to be.

Hell, we all got places to be!

We don’t have time to decipher

Your nonsense gestures.

Now either spit it out or move on!”

Snaps a business man in a gray BMW,

Waving his watch clad wrist out the window

And pointing at it furiously.

 

This last request ignites

An onslaught of blaring horns,

Infuriated demands and

A barrage of insults.

 

At this,

As if to denote surrender,

The kid drops his chin to his chest.

Then he lowers himself to the ground,

Pulls his knees into his chest

And buries his face into his knees.

 

Then like a puff of smoke

From the mouth of some unseen smoker,

He vanishes into the hazy

Late November sky.

 

And for a moment; all goes quiet.

 

But then, from over the horizon,

The enigmatic intent

Of the kid’s attempted warning

Is made clear

To each and every

Passenger and Driver

Alike.

 

Panic ensues.

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