Here's my entry for the Emily Suess writing contest using writing prompt #49, "The streetlights..." I so wanted to do something Pixar, but I'm just too Plymptoon.
Bulbous
The streetlights at the corner stared each other down.
Their long arms shook their bulbous fists, egged on by gusts through town.
The north one flickered constantly. He ached to pound
the south, who buzzed how he would happily slap the north around.
Why it had come to this they neither knew nor cared.
It probably involved the other always being there.
When north picked up a bird and threw it with a glare,
south batted it away and with a fateful buzz declared:
“Tonight, my friend. Tonight.” North flickered, “Finally.”
They tried to wrench their bases free, then saw they had to freeze:
A bucket truck sped towards them, stopping in between.
Its orange flashers flashed officiously: “Utility.”
One worker set up pylons, blocking off the roads.
Two more brought out their tools, the cables and a covered load.
They hoisted it, installed it quickly and exposed
a single red light slowly blinking: “Fuck. You. Both.”
The streetlights failed to see the workers pack and leave,
so angry were they at this pompous, interloping piece
of—“Fuck. You. Both.” They shook and would have screamed
had they not seen at once it was their common enemy.
They calmed. They smiled. The streetlights saw they were alone,
then tore loose from the sidewalks, hopped until they stood below
the light and beat it so hard that its cables groaned.
Its thick skin split. It bled red wires. It kept on blinking, though:
“Fuck. You. Both.” They stepped up their attack.
They knocked the red light from its mount. They kicked it as it smacked
the street. And when it blinked and blinked they hammered back.
Awash in red, they worked it over till its lenses cracked.
Its bulb at last went out. They crossed their arms like brothers.
South buzzed. North flickered. That was it. They whaled on one another.
Bulbous
The streetlights at the corner stared each other down.
Their long arms shook their bulbous fists, egged on by gusts through town.
The north one flickered constantly. He ached to pound
the south, who buzzed how he would happily slap the north around.
Why it had come to this they neither knew nor cared.
It probably involved the other always being there.
When north picked up a bird and threw it with a glare,
south batted it away and with a fateful buzz declared:
“Tonight, my friend. Tonight.” North flickered, “Finally.”
They tried to wrench their bases free, then saw they had to freeze:
A bucket truck sped towards them, stopping in between.
Its orange flashers flashed officiously: “Utility.”
One worker set up pylons, blocking off the roads.
Two more brought out their tools, the cables and a covered load.
They hoisted it, installed it quickly and exposed
a single red light slowly blinking: “Fuck. You. Both.”
The streetlights failed to see the workers pack and leave,
so angry were they at this pompous, interloping piece
of—“Fuck. You. Both.” They shook and would have screamed
had they not seen at once it was their common enemy.
They calmed. They smiled. The streetlights saw they were alone,
then tore loose from the sidewalks, hopped until they stood below
the light and beat it so hard that its cables groaned.
Its thick skin split. It bled red wires. It kept on blinking, though:
“Fuck. You. Both.” They stepped up their attack.
They knocked the red light from its mount. They kicked it as it smacked
the street. And when it blinked and blinked they hammered back.
Awash in red, they worked it over till its lenses cracked.
Its bulb at last went out. They crossed their arms like brothers.
South buzzed. North flickered. That was it. They whaled on one another.
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