The light stayed red at Eighth and Pine

The light stayed red at Eighth and Pine,

so I let my hand go slack against the wheel.

I started the rhythm I learned when I was nine,

that hollow, rhythmic, wet-sounding squeal.

I snap my middle finger off the thumb

so it hits the base of the palm just right.

A virtuoso of the dull and the dumb,

practicing for no one in the dash light.

It sounds exactly like a leaking pipe,

or a heavy drop hitting a plastic tray.

A useless skill, perfectly ripe,

for wasting the better part of a day.