Another Ode

My red
is not that of bloody battlefields.
it is not
the red of love, lost or found.
it is the red
of brake lights on the freeway, flashing
again &
again &
again &
again &
again &
again.

I am the slow, angry sentence written in the memoirs
of the 100,000 on the 405 North.

I am a pop quiz on Wednesday at Noon:
How does your breath react?
How close to the edge can I push you?
How bad do you want to get there?
Go ahead, and scour the surface streets in the map of your mind.
Is there an alternative?

Around the bend, I will disappear and you will be rushing
through life again, no time to read the billboards or graffiti,
no time to search for spanish radio stations.

You will miss me, I know.