40 to the sky

40 to the sky

40 to the sky,

is how

buckled metal shines.

wrenched loose

by the wind,

the sad rains of January

have turned this

into an altogether

different

sign.

few of us

get the chance to pass at 40.

rusting around the creases,

we slow,

for the fatigue.

bumper to bumper,

we mourn,

noiseless

private losses.

the red sign

lies on its back now,

a skyward slanted,

speed warning.

unenforceable

in its field.

it slows the fall of stars,

for longer,

than we’ll all be here.