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Rated: E · Poetry · Business · #2244481
A poem about my job as a car counter
Bank one
It's such fun
Pedestrians run
I squint at the glare of the sun
Don't want my speed to be outdone
Semis in street lights like a midnight sun

Bank two
Camera's askew
I count on through
Roundabout horseshoe
While I drink my morning brew
Cars: red, black, green, and steel blue

Bank three
Obscured by a tree
All of my coworkers agree
To call it spying would be hyperbole
Sometimes one must slam the command key
Eyes aching, my shift was done at half-past three

Bank four
Isn't a bore
Tell you what for
Please do not ignore
The truck's axles therefor
I'll tell you about my job furthermore

Muscle memory keypad strokes
Yellow road signs my work evokes
Take a thirty-minute break for smokes
I swear this is real, not an ol' spooky hoax
Afterward, I'll clock out and take some tokes
I count whether they drive fast, or are slowpokes

Don't include the signalized right turn on red
How should I count the man mounted thoroughbred?
Been doing this for years, since before the 'rona spread
The pedestrian count from Monday, it filled me with dread
When you're doing a queue count, best be sure they stop dead
You never know, I might be counting a street near your homestead
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