Five Years after the Last Flagging Assignment

The dryer hums, and my clothes are drying. It rained earlier, but now the sun is peering through clouds. As I awaken, the morning is still. I sit at a table in the front room and it creaks. When sifting through my poetic lines I remember that each day begins with a whisper. I remember that around each turn in the highway lies a surprise. My thoughts turn to my days as a flagger as if it is a previous life. I remember when there was one lane road I turned my sign to control the flow of traffic. Some people I stopped waved and smiled, but in time I learned how to let them go. Each evening after work I’d write a poem and the librarian at the front desk was a confidant, a friend. They’d always offer praise of how I could make a page come alive while my fingers danced over the keys. But now the quiet side street in front of the house is broken. I’ve called Public Works but some things never change. Now I’m back home and learning to live again. As a bird flies past my window I think I’ll heat some leftovers and go for a drive.