Cyborg

The old black man
Held the wheel of his car
Cautiously, lovingly
Like it were a
shiny new grandchild

He peered through
two glass walls into
the next uncertain moments
ahead. Frog-marched
into here and now
he fed his baby
between the lines
conscious of its still
pristine skin and
its heart beat which
without exception
must never be exerted

His baby murmured
between the lines,
grimaced at other's
noxious gases
faltered before vicious
opened doors

But trusted his master,
who sweated patiently
around his tight white collar
done-up with a tight
burgundy tie.

A red light
stopped them.

His milky blue/brown eyes
scanned for a change
in hue,
while his car
panted at his feet
trusting he would,
make the right move.
He always had.