It's late.

There's something very kind to it,
Streets stretching to boundaries,
Whose breaking points I know not.
Cars crawling through intersections,
Pulling themselves,
Intersecting with one another,
As in a rehearsed script.
The traffic lights change at their own whim,
green to red to yellow.
Two people ambling at their leisure.
The danger of this place I know I exaggerate,
Their backs' expressions a matter of posture and gait.
There's something very kind to it,
This place in which I live.