Green Means Go

By L. Woods

I looked down and away, then reached up to adjust the mirror. I didn’t want him to see me not seeing him.

He lumbered along, waving at each nameless, hidden face inside the aligned cars. He moved even closer in his tattered, dirty, layered, and torn clothing. His broken teeth emerged from his sun-stained, hardened, wrinkled skin. His cardboard sign was simple: HELP!

I fumbled with the radio, creating an intense look on my face—leaning in as if the radio was a power through which I would receive immersive, empowering wisdom. Did he see me?

Then, the light turned green.