coloured lights police the flow of humanity,
defiant amidst the morning crowd,
people aching for a place to put
their shouldered worlds down.

while they sandwich their hearts
between convenience store wrappers and spare change,
they figure their shoe horn could be used
in more ways than one:
to poke and tease the new year out of
the Jenga that is both history and existence.

will time be different this year?

will time paint us faceless, careless, past-perfect,
will time be appeased by our resolutions?

will there be time to custom-make our age,
brand it with our initials and tie them
tight around our necks?

after all,
people have to know who to give up their seats for,
who to slow down for.

we’re trying our best not to take that seat.

the green man is not enough to signal
make way for the pedestrians
people only begrudge the red man for
his insistence that we wait—
colour’s not supposed to get in the way,
but we’ve been through this, you’re not still mad about it, are you?

as they walk and talk and fault their boots,
and walk and gawk at the pigeon-ed routes,
and walk and muse that birds have more than just legs
and of course we’re not jealous,
are we?

after all,
weather subjects us to its temper;
thunder sweeps us all undercover,
wings or not,
we choose where we’re comfortable:

ignoring a storm or two,
while others march through unfazed,
determined to bleach the yellow sun
when it comes out of hiding.

do we make way for them?