Yellow lights

This poem is about a guilty pleasure that a lot of New Yorkers go through. It’s something that a lot of New Yorkers and a lot of people that live in cities can relate to. I hope you enjoy.

Yellow is the burn of accelerating white walls. Catching them and saving them in a box that exist in your rearview mirror. Never to be spoken of only to be celebrated. Breaks that antilock rob us of screeching tires that remind us of bank robbery getaways. The streets are glossy shimmering like something out of a Scorsese movie then suddenly the cruiser we didn’t see behind us hits the whaler Blair, the lights, turning yellow into the shiver. I feel down my spine. He passes me as if to say that’s right, sir. I can turn you yellow anytime I please with obstacles blocking psyche, slowly removed and replaced, yellow becomes a promise. I make myself never to take that light again, but memories are short and people are stupid. Amarillo my mother replies when I ask how to say yellow in Spanish. And what does that mean to you? What do you mean what does it mean? It’s just a color to us yellow means to be cowardly or to be an old mad dog lying under a house dying. While to others yellow lights mean speeding up and beating the red just like all true New Yorkers do just don’t tell anybody.