The Flagger

Clad in neon he stands alone

by the side of the road,

twirling his signal from STOP to SLOW,

exercising the power conferred on him

over us hurrying from here to there

or back again, our daily businesses,

impatient with the delay, with him.

It’s a lonely job, human contact

but his twin on the other end, connected

by a crackly voice on a radio wave,

shared power to move us orderly along,

or the friendly wave of a driver

tipping his hand, the wild hands

of a child safely ensconced in the back seat.

He waves back, perhaps, or not,

this person standing here alone, hopping

to stay warm on a cold winter’s day,

or gulping water while we drive by

in the heat of a summer afternoon, air conditioned.

And at the end of his day, what does he think,

what does he say about a job well done,

the impatience of drivers drumming their fingers

or checking their watches while he watches, too,

fidgeting, impatient to pass, hurrying on.

It’s a paycheck, the rent money, and perhaps

a burger he splurged on, a cold beer and fries,

for we do what we do, what we have to do

to get by, to occupy our time in our own passing,

waiting, impatient as the drivers he meets,

for what’s to come next, dreaming as he waits

for us to move through, move on,

twirling his signal to SLOW, for slow it is,

standing here, dreaming and waiting.