Twenty-One** Poem by Neil Young

Morning rush-hour traffic
Soars along the rain-soaked
A-road. I wait here for
The lights to change. Today,
He's twenty-one. I feel
No older, though the cars
Like metaphors for years
Surge on relentlessly.

All year, those weathered flowers
Clung, their limp and sun-bleached
Offerings; fragments of
A grief outpoured. Today
Fresh bows and banners claim
He's Twenty-one; their symbols
Fragrant, tear-stained, serving
To remind us and to warn.

He's twenty-one, or would
Be had he lived. I watch
Another parents' son
Risk the quick route. Darting
To the barrier, he vaults.
Cars slow their procession
In the rain. This time
A fearless child is spared.