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.
Copyright © Mike Bayles | Year Posted 2024
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