There’s a stop sign
at the end of the road, and
one day I’m going to ignore it.
Aim myself straight through it,
like a contrite objection, an old
rusty bell that vows to chime.
And I’ll be quietly steady
in the spirit of well-landed words,
like bold nouns on a book’s spine
that neither spell out thoughts
nor deeds, certainly not a shy
mirage of wavering intent.
Yes, one day I’ll be a perverse
heroine who flattens stop signs.