Traffic Stop   It’s just these glasses, officer, I swear — they’re progressives and I’m still getting used to peering through this tube of startling clarity   amidst a blur of color — blues like this undersea mountaintop, these reds like bloody marys, these greens like Vermont,   like forests suddenly summer, like dead presidents, like love — out here where we want to be beautiful, here where it’s just me,   you, and the universe, a voice to say that all is well, everything’s fine, you’re free to go now, ma’am — you can be on your way.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont May 2013