Napoem Day 3 – Signs


He owns belief in GPS, firm
as proof of intelligent design,
notwithstanding his wife’s reminders
of its directives
to coffee shops in cornfields,
and nature preserves suspended
over housing developments.

Today, they are due at 7 A.M.,
90 min. SW, near Ada. Why, then,
does the sun shine
through the passenger window,
isn’t this Route 66,
didn’t they just pass Luther?

Near noon,
there’s chickens loose on the roadside.
What’s with the signs
about seismic crews?
And that sculpture plunked in the middle
of a field next to an old barn – a bronze hand,
middle finger pointing at the sky,
butterfly welded to its index finger
just outside an unmarked

town? The only diner
a fill-up station, sides,
roof, chairs, tables lined
with tin. No cell phone or GPS reception.
Men’s room – out-of-order. Women, only
serving – food, fuel and directions – ten minutes
straight down the highway. Turn at the sign
on the left, one mile up the dirt road.


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