Stalled at the red light, I wait my turn
to turn onto the main road, see the surge
of cars, vans and small trucks pass me.
I stare at the salmagundi of faces–
squints, scowls, crooked smiles,
a downward dip of diaphanous lips.
Now and then, a rupture of song.
An alto, alone in a pearl white Prius,
belts out Piaf (No Regrets!). A tired mom
in a perm twists her neck, hollers
at the backseat bunch. Landscapers
jammed into rigs, U-haulers,
platinum-hued matrons, patrons
of country, of rap, of jazz, the bald,
the bespectacled, bluetooth talkers,
zealous texters, the introverts lost
in some private mantra. Strangers
behind steering wheels cruise by,
bearing stories I’ll never know.  I settle
for a glimpse, a fleeting moment
forgotten in a moment.  All of us
driving past each other, our faces fixed
by the trajectory of the day,
the buildup of years, looking
as we do when we think no one
is watching.

Irene Flick has been writing poetry for years, and her first chapbook was published by The Broadkill Press in 2014 and received first place awards from the National Federation of Press Women and the Delaware Press Association. Her poetry has been published in various journals including Gargoyle, Poet Lore, Adanna, Pittsburgh Poetry Review and Philadelphia Stories.