NO PARKING

Somewhere, someone grins
since we’ve been rejuvenated
reading poetry in the cold, tipping
hats to hold one another one more time,
to raise a glass to something other
than the obvious, sing the old songs—

and planted ‘No Parking’ signs
lit like torches for over a mile
in our headlights, like an urban
‘welcome home’ at the beginning
of Dry Creek Road they changed
to Drive years ago, declared Scenic
for the tourists, and as a token
for the enviros.

                Safe inside somewhere else,
someone is blinded with this brilliant
satisfaction, this line of reflective lights,
this declaration that begs reprisal,
that dares the riff-raff with a six-pack
and nothing else to do but prove
they are alive, sensitive to any
officious sign of what they can’t do.

It all plays out down the road
without me, without a letter
for the record no one gives a damn
about—or can afford to enforce.
It could be shown in film
festivals around the world—
this microcosmic vignette that
celebrates what we already know.