The Stop Sign

There is a monster that lives
at the end of the street
He lets people approach,
but only strangers can pass

A clump of wet hair falls
onto printed words
that give the barber's son dreams,
but he becomes his father

An eagle soars from the church tower
but refrains from opening his wings
In loving memory
chiseled into a headstone

An empty bottle is removed
from the wet carpet
An old man's sleeping head
escapes from a shield of broken glass

Visions from a rear-view mirror
are clearer than the road ahead
The stop sign waves me on,
the king of strangers left behind