Stoplight Haiku

menacing clouds frown
at the Federal Building,
its gate sliding closed

silver morning fog,
the air letting summer go.
a stolen mist glimpse

mini drivers waving
to the other mini drivers
as if they’ve always

just because it’s true
doesn’t mean it has happened,
only someone saw

the way things don’t grow
is evidenced easily
by the way they are

on a green morning
I forsee the bare branches,
my breath in the air

petrol panic peers
through windshield, like dirty rain
made by its forbears