Stop on Main Street and look up at the sign that tells you where you are even though you insist you already know.
Do you see how the sign reaches towards you as if
you have a secret to tell?
Do you see where the rebels tried to tear it down, where the snow melted and fell,
where the baseball finally dented the corners after hours of target practice?
Now look at the cracked pavement, note the maniacal grin that meets your eyes, the
pothole mouth that will never close
Do you see the balled up Wall Street Journal on the ground? Do you see the
worn words of tired ghosts, stolen children, kidnapped homes?
Can you feel the relaxed page of comics sweeping over you like your mother’s palm,
can you see the wrinkles in the op-ed page, waiting for you to smooth it out?
Can you see the same wrinkles in the mother who swept her palm over you? The
way she smoothed out the collar of your shirt with the same hands. 
Can you see the way she silently stirred the pot with your favorite soup, and spoke about her days of blissful childhood?
Do you remember the way your sister leapt into the days and swam into the nights and
stared at the moon like a newborn wolf?
Do you see the town you passed on the way to piano class, the one with houses that
had chipped paint and drooping Christmas wreaths?
And finally, look at your hands.  Do you
see the creases in your fingers, the lines on your palms? 
how many years
have you worn?