Traffic Is Traffic, Everywhere

Beyond green hills, sheep placidly graze 
before going to slaughter. 

"Be kind," the Bath Abbey minister says.
"Megaphones are for presidents and politicians."

In the Frenchwoman's car, in the backseat, I touch 
your leg. Do you notice? Or do you ignore?

Bruised, I turn away. 

"Chevrons means goats," the Frenchwoman's 
husband explains. I remember the long ago 

pleasure of running up and down stairs 
as nimble as a goat—before I grew old. 

In our country, the man who calls himself President
has his stubby short fat finger hovering over the red button. 

Out the car window once more, 
fluffy white sheep zoom into view. 


Robin Michel is a writer, poet and non-profit consultant. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in The New Guard, Pittsburgh Quarterly, Rappahannock Review, Star 82 Review and elsewhere. She lives with her husband in San Francisco, where they enjoy eating wild raspberries and welcoming the fog when it eventually arrives. 

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