The Crossing Guard

He rarely smiles but does his job
With serious intent,
Protecting lives as his demeanor
Makes quite evident.

He strides into the street so that
When children make the crossing,
The cars hold up, respectful of
Just who is out there bossing.

At times, within the intersection,
Traffic starts to inch.
His hand shoots up, a signal
Like a small but painful pinch.

It does the trick and drivers wait,
Impatient though they are,
For if a winner were declared,
It wouldn’t be a car.