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There are times when my anxiety makes me think I have, like, the ESPN and stuff.  My students like that reference to Mean Girls. Makes me hip. Or so I like to think. Anyhow, I’m feeling much better today. It gets difficult, sometimes, to recognize the signs in our lives, but I’m fairly certain that yesterday’s heartshudders were just precursors to today’s ill-ish child and broken pipe. Turns out our kid was just fine, but for a lingering little cough because she is three and can’t expel her phlegm, but the broken pipe is now a thing and will continue to be one until we can fix it with our home depot credit card and house-fixer friend.

So, a poem for the signs?

Signs Here and There and About

Where are they, though? On the way to work, is the deer that turns back a sign, then, and if so, is it to carry on or to turn back?  Is the moon left hung in the sky a sign, or an omen, and what is the difference, then? Sometimes there are stars and sometimes not. When do they mean anything, then? Is it when the satellites are clear in their swoop, or not? Or is it when the moon is dark, or is is it when you can hear every instinct still burbling over the rocks and when the stop sign makes you want to go fast down the highway, always, over and over.

There are signs here and there and all about, all pointing and causes, and when an arrow is loosed, well, damn, there it goes. What are they, though, the signs now? Is there a single one that could tell us to turn back, from our fast-paced future? Wouldn’t it take just that single turn towards, well, we hate to say it, but a single turn, quick-spun would turn us right back toward peace, would it now? Would it not?


Good night, poemies. Happy Monday. Happy-ish Monday. Happier Monday.