poem

 Roundabout

The town transitioned from its inefficient grid

Of four way stops and timed traffic lights

To a flowing amalgam of roundabouts 

Consultant engineers had determined

To be the secret to continuous motion—

Blunt the points, soften the edges, blur the margins

To preserve an earned momentum

But if you can’t stop

Maybe you never even started

And it’s always been like this

On and on, a series of glancing blows

That take us in new directions

Avoiding head on collisions 

We can survive tangential contacts

And passive diversions 

Curved like commas linking clauses

In a winding sentence that goes on forever

The way curlicued shavings on the floor

Are more interesting than the hollow totem

We’ve carved to honor the god

Who tells us when to stop.

7/13/25