He loves a long drive, to read signs
with secret messages just for him—
his favorites promise a gentle love
soon to appear, jumping into his path
when he least expects it.
Always alert, he watches for signals
to tell him what he needs to do.
RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP
Careful not to swerve when his mind
wanders, curves toward places he goes
in his imagination. He’ll write a book
someday with instructions for reading
the signs. No signing contracts on days
when Mercury’s in retrograde.
God’s watching, listening to every thought,
has chosen him for a mission he’s waiting
to be shown— too grand to talk about.
TV commercials remind of hygiene’s
routines for laundry, dandruff, breath.
Every star’s position and alignment spell
his destiny, so his chart stays private.
He won’t share his birth date on his website.
DO NOT ENTER
The dead send him messages encrypted
in tea leaves, smoke, patterns of fallen
leaves. Murmurings of people passing
whisper directions, advice. Graffiti
and super-storms convey personal warnings.
How simple our lives would be if everyone
could read as easily as he: