An attempt at grandeur 

The faded wooden sign,

Marked like a bulls-eye with holes

But not from arrows

…From careful archers

But from staples and nails long ago removed.

The signs current  purpose was one of dispute,

&  one of respite

Advertisments for  lost dogs and

Birthday parties hung proudly in contrast  here,

Praises sung loudly here;

Some current, and some more  fabled then others.

What is left of the sign now a memorial of rusty  staples and creeping moss,

(Also in contrast with one another)

As well as  the peeling paint, that falls much slower than the changing leaves.

This decrepit state,

Brought on by  insurmountable tidal waves of humidity.

&

The occasional hammer strike,

Or tremor from a summertime cannonball.

The   fragile wooden legs on which it stands,

Occasionally will shake,

Because of these factors,

& also

Because the sign has no taproot,

(Or branches)

Any sense of stability left long ago,

(Sustainability never having existed)

Driven away by

Gusts of wind  that howl like wolves;

                                                                                                   &

Gusts of wind that also feast like wolves;

And still, the mostly vacant sign will remain.

Although the occasional termite will of course still take up residence here,

Never offering as much as a cent,

&

Still somehow being rewarded with shelter.

Whats left of the structure;

Still warm, still breathing.

Here under a few live oaks.

This sign whose only  aspirations  were to be a billboard someday

Complete with the  fluttering letters at lunchtime

&

A ladder that no one ever climbed.

It is instead a  forgotten landmark,

A crumbling  sandcastle in the face of approaching tides

Or

A farm that at one time yielded an abundance of crops,

Busy with the sounds of plows and the

Smells of leather.

Now arid and buzzing with hungry crows.

Who can only build nests of rock.

Not quite a graveyard…

Not quite a graveyard…

Life here,

In a grassy median,

Dreaming of life  at sea on the Mediterranean,

Has become a visible retirement,

Instead of going out gracefully like a melting candle,

Dancing until there was nothing left but wispy smoke,

Dancing until there was nothing left to dance.

Subsequently leaving behind smell that can never be exploited.

The sign is but a movie trapped  within a reel,

A task once held dear,

Ever since ever was clear.

&

Long since

The ant piles had been swept away,

And the last coat of lacquer had been applied,

Since infancy even,

The sign had great dreams,

Of heaven and earth and everything in between.

Including but not limited to;

Gleaming advertisements showcasing Amish furniture

&

Bathing suits,

Followed by a gradual descent into  a place for  sign up sheets  for little league

&

  Meeting times for

Various committees who intend to pass bills  of certain  bipartisan legislation;

Instead,

Covered up by construction paper signs detailing pot-luck                     luncheons,

                                                                                                                                                Eons ago…

&

Business cards that advertise

Companies that specialize in digging                                   artesian wells.

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