Intersection

The sign, in its stark,

pragmatic simplicity, said it all.

It stuck out of the concrete, on a rusted rod,

so ordinarily, as if to prod,

"It's not complicated. Why do you stall?"

Well, my footfalls had all

been less than confident

up to this point;

sheepishly, I had stridden across the continent

and back, disappointed

in myself a bit, but still alive.

My soles had seen

and tasted a lot,

my soul, of experience, had not been deprived.

Nevertheless,

that goddamn sign aggressively jived

with the frequency of my fears,

the words printed across its indifferent face

fit into the weak points of my psyche like knives

into a neatly carven block.

As if it were crafted

for this very moment,

born in distant steelworks and plastic factories

to end up not far from my home...

I couldn't help myself.

I stood, in transfixed dejection,

at this mixed-up intersection

of Brignola Boulevard and King Street.

It seemed as if

every vehicle, every pedestrian,

every insect and equestrian,

hell, even the leaves on the breeze...

every thing, living or not,

knew just where to go,

but not I.

I halted before those crowded streets

so long that the sidewalk

filled with cracks.

Potholes formed in the pavement

after so many rubber attacks...

I wondered how many dollars

of crippling income tax

would have to be paid

before it all got fixed.

I wondered this and

countless other pointless things,

anything to keep my mind

away from the dilemma at hand.

Still, to this day,

in that desolate land,

the two of us stand,

that sign and I.

And I suspect that we will,

until, until...

until all distraction has eroded away.

Maybe on that day

I'll know which way...

which way?