Midway down Walnut Street
a yellow sign says Slow Deaf Child,
with the silhouette of a running boy

painted over the bent and dented surface.

Just the post, rusted to black,

gives the story away.



The child must have grown up

and left the neighborhood a long time ago.



And now there's this sign.



You can imagine his parents going

to the city clerk's office.



The paperwork is strange and complex,

languishing in office outbins,

drifting through council meetings.



One spring morning the boy sees two city workers

get out of a truck and set the bright sign

in the patch of grass between the sidewalk and street.



He watches it out the window, knowing what it is,

watching it gather the world around it

like a mountain in the Bible.



Cars heed the sign, many drivers scanning to the left

and right hoping to catch sight of the deaf boy playing.



Some drivers imagine hitting him and slow down even more.

They play out the scene, what they would say,

how their lives would change.



And the years pass, even for the little deaf boy.



He gets married, has kids.

Maybe moves to a village in New England

with stone walls and candle makers.



You can imagine him returning to the old neighborhood.

Driving down on a fall afternoon into the quiet center of things,

gently braking before this old streetsign.



He would do that, he would come back.

As if it had been written twice.