I believe in signs: yesterday got some

right great news, no explanation needed,

just love inside a courthouse. I could’ve

crossed my legs and cried. Today

got punched straight in the face in the nicest

way she could have done it, two days ago,

two letters in the mail, black ink that

wouldn’t  smudge. Times They Are

A Changin’, as Dylan’s wont to wail.

Time’s got a slew of whys headed straight

for its wagging, wettened tail. Yesterday

a colored message on the sidewalk, red

and pink plus orange with the arrows

pointing toward the house. Today one

block of cheese melting in a canvas

bag. To signal with one’s  arms is a signal

of our times: we’re tired. We’re all choked

up. I wrote two dozen signs in waxy

pen today, words like, Stuff these Peps

with Cheese. Market signage is important,

as is signage sketched on cardboard,

like the piece above the closet that

tells me  where to go. Judging from

the unkissed sky, time is rushing in

on us again,  neckties and bowls

and rickshaw  almost-yeses, morphing

into no’s. Ears nose and throat all crammed

with altered cries: if you duck out or

cancel on the weather, it doesn’t mean

the rain will cease. If you invite me

with your nostrils to the pleasure

of your presence I doubt I’ll turn you

down. Pried from the edges of these

brightblue eyes is a type of scuffed

acceptance: what you do won’t make you

who I think you’ll always be, but it makes

you who you are. The liars and the thieves

were right: it’s easier to jet than

stay and watch the garden go to seed, all

that food  that someone loaned good soil to,

all that high green-watered need.