Stop Light

The sound that the rubber blade of the timeworn squeegee made, swiftly scrubbing my car’s screen in a familiar routine; was more obnoxious to me than the stuff, resembling ghee that the soul, sad and unclean had just thrown on there. I mean now they’ll expect to be paid or it’ll be a harsh tirade about their slip; unforeseen, my fine car, and being mean, and how the land of the free works fine for people like me, for them, the country’s decayed. I think that I’m being played but then, that thought is obscene! Why won’t the dam light turn green? God, they are looking at me; sorry, have no change, I plea.