In Which Primary Election Day Holds Some Surprises

I bought a house a year ago or so,
And thus changed my address, but little did
I realize that this day I would go
Both far and wide to exercise, as bid,
My franchise. Last time 'round 'twas just a block
From where I lived to where I cast my vote.
My new pad's just a quarter-mile to walk
From those old digs, but now (I failed to note
Before today), I'm in a district new
To me, and now the locale of my poll
Is many miles away. The air's still blue
From my much-thwarted process there -- how droll:
Construction everywhere meant that it took
Almost the whole alloted hour. Fists shook!.
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Sonnet For A Friday Dusk

The cars go back and forth behind the fence.
A stream of traffic flows on past my yard
Unceasing. So it's gone and will go hence:
The white and then the red lights. It's not hard
To get annoyed at this and wonder why
So many people must go rushing past.
Just to and fro, and fro and to. The sky
Is deepening, dark blue, then black at last,
And out comes Venus, Mars and then the Moon
(At full, or nearly so), and still bright lights
In white, then red, zip by. I know that soon
The flow will slow somewhat; it does most nights.
But right now it's a rapid metronome,
The sights and sounds that tell me I'm at home.

In Which The Construction Gods Smile On Me At Last

Returned from Saratoga, lo, I find

That Dell Range Avenue is nearly back

To normal, on my eastern end. My mind

much eased by this, I failed to note that smack

Amidst us all, new traffic lights now hang

At Marble Avenue! So that is what

The mess was for? Illus'ry safety bang

In my own subdivision? That's great, but

I still won't fall for it, not on my bike.

Or in my car, or walking. Red or green,

They're still just symbols. Sure we all would like

To think they are preventive, but the scene

Just down the street at Converse surely proves

That head-in-ass is still how traffic moves.

In Which Further Rage Is Vented

Construction as you know has quite f'd up

The only way out of my neighborhood

Into the rest of Cheyenne. Now I sup

On still more rage, though I know I'm as good

For blaming as the red and white Ford truck

That just plowed into Deep Blue's back tire when

I dared to cross the street where he was stuck

A-waiting his next chance to join again

The greater stream of traffic. I did think

He'd waved me on across like a good guy

But then he lurched. I stopped just on the brink

Of getting fully hit -- don't want to die

Just when things in my life are looking well

But how I wish that driver were in hell.

In Which I Shake My Fist At The Construction Gods

Dell Range at my end is right now a maze

Of cones and barrels and ugly VM signs.

I'm to the east, so should I get a craze

To go somewhere on business, my designs

Do force always a left turn, which is hard

Enough against the traffic when there's not

Construction out there. I am often barred

From moving as the minutes tick. I've got

A store of patience, but it sure wears thin

Now that the traffic's down to just two lanes

And those so hard to see. A hot place in

Street planning hell awaits, with bright orange chains

For those who made this happen, I decree.

Of course, I know that's not quite up to me.