Road Signs
by Joan Luther

She tests her limits
and yields at speed bumps,
approaching dead ends
on the interstate of life, yet
She's been hoping for a sign.

He's taken many curves and detours,
traveling through infinite street names,
now caressing her skin with no parking
anytime, on her private road with no entry.
She's been longing for a sign.

She stops at the red light,
turning the corner on one-way roads.
He holds up a hand at her roundabout,
yielding within the crosswalk, but
She's been wishing for a sign.

He introduces her as a chevron, his fiancé,
U-turning his love in no-passing zones,
talking of their slow speed limit,
along the road of tomorrow, as
She's been aching for a sign.

Time cautions them with on-ramping
through wrong-ways and closed streets
while she passes the intersections
of his words, to look both ways since
She's still hoping for a sign.

When she bypasses reserved spaces,
where they bump routes each day,
he has parking-zoned his toothbrush
next to hers, the sign of hope on
their slippery-when-wet way.



 

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