Exit 85,
Glen Allen,
turn right.
If drivers take the advice,
they head towards a peaceful town
where the last autumn leaves shiver
in the cold.
Or the drivers don't.
They continue straight ahead
racing towards their Harly Earl trophy,
to their own music.
And the sign remains
through years of unforgiving winds,
getting slapped by cigarette butts and
crushed soda cans,
the sun baking the green palette
letting rust take control of its figure.
Until one day,
when the trees begin to morph
into dark curtains
the glistening rain its glitter
capturing the beady, yellow eyes of cars
that lose interest and pass by,
the sign of Exit 85 is torn from its
supporting legs,
drifting with the wind to venture
into unknown lands
and experience the chaos that awaits.