The Crossing Guard

He rarely smiles but does his job With serious intent, Protecting lives as his demeanor Makes quite evident. He strides into the street so that When children make the crossing, The cars hold up, respectful of Just who is out there bossing. At times, within the intersection, Traffic starts to inch. His hand shoots up, a signal Like a small but painful pinch. It does the trick and drivers wait, Impatient though they are, For if a winner were declared, It wouldn’t be a car.