When the sign was new,
it was a literal symbol of authority:
Bold, emblazoned, red octagon
that could have been cut
from the side of a fire truck.

STOP.

It sat in a parking lot,
not a usual place for such a thing,
but demanded attention nonetheless,
obeisance, conformity to law.

Now after years of facing afternoon sun,
beaten weary, bled of most of its color,
it stands, haggard and yellow,
graffiti sprayed on its face, its four
incontrovertible letters barely visible,

(stop)

looking more like a suggestion
than a command.

But it stands.
And even a rolling stop
is homage enough.

10/02/2001

Posted on 10/02/2001
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt