Road Sign this is how we say hello, one index finger raised from the steering wheel as we pass on these narrow roads tight enough to graze each other’s fenders if we’re not vigilant our other fingers stay furled to the wheel to guide us around the road-kill curves, the single finger released to mark the instant of our common crawl over shared ground this one finger the only voice we can afford, but ample speech for the moment, briefly perpendicular, as if we are checking wind direction in the truck cab, pointing out the shortest route to paradise, or tallying the count—of fish caught on a bad day, of deer taken during muzzleloader season, of the chances we yet have to get it right __________ "Road Sign" appeared in volume 6.1 of Stickman Review. Home / Escapee / Stories / Poems / Non-fiction / Contact / Links |