Speaking in tongues no others know.
A stop sign on a lonely hill:
Together in a front yard filled with cars:
People laughing, wrestling, football toss,
The trees stop near the sidewalk,
Driving a long night alone,
The yellow stripes of the road
Their reflections spread out to give
A line of expended laser bursts--
A dog lay injured in the road center,
Breathing troubled, head in the air
And fright in the eyes, but body
Shattered, lay still in the road,
And head lights blinding, people
Rush by, never stopping. A dog expires alone.
Under the trees, the road an orange carpet.
Perhaps explorers should come through here.
No one lives here.
Someone should.
Children should ride bikes down this hill.
They should sled on the old field grass
Away from the trees when the snow falls.
Haven’t I been here before?
It’s harder to see things at dusk.
Leave the porch light on.
But that was long ago.
The fence has fallen down.
Only weeds grow here now.
A siren cries: all life slows down.
We need more stop signs on this road.
The school is down the street.
Each person has their own sound.
Copyright © 1997 Michael W Webb writing as Matthew Ian
First Writing Mid 1990
Revision Unknown revisions 1990-1997
