The trouble with omens

The signs along this road

Makes no sense to me

Pointing this way and that

My road map no longer valid

Since none of these highways

Are on it.

We live in a world filled

With portends and omens

A crow’s cry from a high branch

Warning me of some danger

I can never see

A fish flop on the river top

Telling of some good event

I must attend

But never the address

Or as time I should arrive

I’m always arriving too soon

Or too late

The uncomfortable guest

Standing on the front stoop

Before any of the other guests

Have arrived,

Struggling to make up

Conversation to fill the time

Or too late when all the good talk

Has been expired

And I am left alone in the corner

An unacknowledged wall flower

Trying to pick out new omens

Off the wall paper

Or make out where the back door is

So I can make my escape,

I ache to read the signs

Before they ceased

To mean anything meaningful.