Hangin' Over the Traffic

Headed out for sights and maybe a bite this hot-ass night,

I met Jamie on the bridge, just hangin’ over the traffic ridge.

It was sunset and orange and she wore her hoody tight,

her hands pushed deep down in its pockets.

And we were above it all, and not going anywhere,

and life could’ve kept us there, just hanging over the traffic.

And we watched the cars and spat upon the thoroughfare,

and we didn't care—
the headlights going like rockets.

And we let the sun sink, watched the sky get blue and pink,

as the streetlights blinked, just hangin’ over the traffic linked.

The apartments, the laundromat, the church and skate rink

all seemed to wink at us rulers of the world.

For we were above it all, and not going anywhere,

and life could’ve kept us there, just hanging over the traffic.

The car shops, the bar hops, the ad signs, the night’s air—

all of it down where 
they had everything unfurled.

So we counted cars and talked about what could be ours,

the past and future below, just hangin’ over the traffic flow.

Spotted a breakdown, saw a bust, and felt like superstars,

our two ears plugged into a headphone pair.

And we were above it all, and not going anywhere,

and as the city lit the south, hanging over the traffic mouth,

I felt a night gust, and I had her trust, so we left it all there

to chance on our expanse, 
and went somewhere.  

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--Poems from the Sprawl