Crosswalk

We forget every day to wear
shoes out of the house, especially 
when it is warm
and the sun drips from the sky 
like an overripe mango.

We no longer look both ways
before we cross the street,
or while
or after. 

We are too eager,
too care-free,
too much "go"
and not enough "slow".

"Hold my hand," he says as if I trust him,
as if I ever could. 
"Yes," is not an option anymore. 

We’re our own obnoxious warning signs.