Green signs above the highway
so apparent in my vision,
but quite far from what I’m thinking about.
I am thinking about her
and all the magic things she says
while cutting up junk mail
marked in bland ink
with both her name and mine.

The privacy fences in the neighborhood
do little for actual privacy, as little girls
will scurry up their sides
and peek their eyes over at the top
to see the boys are doing the same,
a never ending type of game.
We watch it from the sidelines and remember.

My thinking moves back to the signs,
thin metal with some glowing paint,
bouncing our light back at us in the dark.
I’m sure at least one has fallen before,
shaken loose by violent wind.
Bending as it cracked the road,
or not with its sharp edges cutting through it.
Leaving it there with a corner embedded,
and all the traffic parting like a stream.

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