The Traffic Wizard

Whatever he gives one lane
comes out of the other three.

The Chevy with the tags
two years expired.
Green.

The woman crying
and gesturing
in a Subaru.
Green.

He gives a nurse
on hour twelve
eleven clean blocks,
no brake lights.

She sits in the driveway
for twenty.

A man in a Corolla
having an ordinary Thursday
waits four minutes at Selby.
The next week, six.
Then eight.

The man calls the city.
The city says
the sensors are fine.

That fall
with his phone lit
on the passenger seat,
the man in the Corolla
still in his house shoes—

endless green.