Sitting By The Window At Three A.M. Poem by Frank William Finney

Before they installed the arrow signal lights,
left turns were risky enough at this intersection.

No less than twice a week,
our dreams were hijacked
by a band of unknown assailants
screeching tyres, crack-crunching metal,
and quick alarm bells of shattering glass.

Night after night,
like gerbils on a buzzer,
we jumped for a phone and rang the cops.

Now, instead of accidents,
we watch the lights shoot
red and green arrows towards the metal stampede
as the bulls butt heads with piercing horns.

Sitting at the window at 3 a.m.
we rub our bloodshot lamps
while the genii sleep

O, but grant us a wish before the dawn:
a flash flood perhaps, or a
detour across town-

or better still,
a blackout.