Red Light District

by Liam Robichaud

There is something about a red light
that seems to signal
some impending danger.
It has been programmed into our minds
to tell us to take action.

Unable to take any immediate action,
I sit waiting with a lead foot,
poised above the unassuming pedal,
eager for the light to change.

I am ten minutes late.

A bull may charge at a fluttering red cape,
but a human would not.
Red marks what we are to avoid.

I am stopped at the roadside staring
into an intense vista
of mountainscape with sunset backlighting.

Red lights mark radio towers,
warning pilots of a possible doom.

I am twenty minutes late.

Cities have for many years
marked with red lights
those parts of town
God-fearing people avoid,
for fear of corruption
by prostitutes and jazz musicians.

I arrive at the restaurant.
The sign outside casts a red light
on a fearless concrete sidewalk.

I am thirty minutes late.

The room is well lit.
Small tables scattered about may
from above form constellations.
She sits rapping her fingers
on an empty plate.
I nervously compliment the shade
of her red lipstick.