The sound you don't chase anymore

Red light. The jingle came through

the static, pulling you the way

it always did. You knew what it meant—

go inside, get money, want something.

Two blocks over, a kid in a driveway,

an adult's hand on his shoulder,

both of them walking toward the street.

You used to run inside. Your mother

counting bills on the counter,

your small fists already reaching.

Now you're sitting in traffic

watching someone else learn

what the jingle means.

That you get to want.

The light turned green.

You didn't move.