Poetry by Frances Bringloe
The green is speaking. It has prepared a poem in a language I’ll never understand, though I know rhyme when I hear it. I’m leaning in to catch a word – when red interrupts. It’s a strip of red, like the one line in the kind of painting my friends all hate. This is modern art. It speaks of the present, not the past. I get this language. I’m well-versed in red. Red means alarm, and destruction, and heat. I sit back to listen, but the white words don’t let it finish a sentence. White against red isn’t a matter of study. Of course I know it. It means stop, and warnings, and orders. If we forgot white against red, we’d all be lost. The green mutters to itself. It’s still dwelling on those few words the red snatched away. Red just stands in silent defiance of the white. And there, front and center, the white stands, screaming for attention.
No parking. One may walk by red, and one may drive by red, but one may not park there, for fear of consequences. Just keep moving, white says. It’ll all be okay in the end. There’s no way to know that, but sometimes it’s nice to believe. I lift my feet and start across the Quad to Eton Hall.