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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 |