Crosswalk for Poets

Should we paint the town red? Or any other color that means more. The boring streets. Sweeping the rain. Dressed with cars.                     Or shall we walk away? No, not on a Thursday. Bleak? Yes, tortured by our treading laces And ornamented with our soles.                    We will dip our fingers, Into the street, Like it was made of wine. And throw a spectrum over it, As we cross on a red light.