The Sun was low with a blinding glow,
the stoplight silhouetted.
You had to squint through the windshield’s glint
and slowed a bit and fretted,
since you couldn’t discern in the Sun’s bright burn
if the light was green or red.
Though it couldn’t be seen, you guessed it was green,
which nearly made you dead.
For you sped straight through—your car just flew!—
and crashed and bashed and banged
into another. The jolt. Oh, brother!
The metal—how it clanged!
Though the cars were stilled, no one was killed,
just shaken up like a gong
pelted by hail, or reeds in a gale.
Yet who was in the wrong?
A copper came, thought, “Who to blame?”
made many an observation;
said, “It’s no use, I can’t deduce
the cause and write a citation.”
Then you gazed at the sky with a squinty eye
and knew on whom to place
the blame. Oh, yes, he’d never confess,
yet flaunts his fulgent face.
It was the Sun—that son of a gun—
that gaseous, jumbo ball
who warms the Earth and gives life birth,
yet doesn't care at all
’bout folks in cars or flies in jars
or kids with sunlit kites.
He goes on glowing while ferns are growing
and fools run traffic lights.