The old man at the end of the road
has staked a big red sign
to his front lawn,
and the sign says NO.
Just NO.
Stark white letters
on a red field so angry
you can feel it from the street,
like a sunburn.
I don’t know what he’s protesting.
The kisses of gay men, maybe,
or the sweat on a working immigrant’s brow.
Coffins coming home with flags
draped over their lids,
or the debt draped on his grandkids
just for wanting to learn something.
Maybe he’s just angry
at the inexhaustible creep of age:
the aches in his hips
and the grit in his bones
and the pills that damn fool doctor
tells him he ought to take.
Whatever it is,
he makes sure everyone
who passes by
knows he’s displeased.
