Plaza Sign Down

Look, it’s hard to be flattened
on this pebbled parking lot like an injured
athlete neglected by the paramedics.

Brought down from my pulpit
above street lamps, I’m at a loss
for the cause of my collapse.

Regardless of how many burnt bulbs
dimmed my vowels or how much pigeon shit
remained stuccoed to my scalp after storms,

I’ve never been timbered like this.
Not even that Labour Day
an Acura crashed into my shins.

Though my gaze is fixed
on the paint-chipped sky, I sense
drivers glancing at me with sympathy.

Like this rocky asphalt, it’s annoying.
I’d rather have them staring up
at the store names rung from my abs.

I know I’m no Spitfire podiumed
outside a warplane museum
or a welcome billboard at the city’s limits.

Neither am I a novelty—like the big baseball
bat that swings near Alberta Avenue. But I get
the job done as my humble mall’s beacon.

The longer I’m gurneyed the longer
I worry. I’ve watched others go
digital: their crowded screens scrolling

ads every second second—it’s unreadable.
I’m done eating this gravel. Static fonts
have staying power. Up, I’ll show you.

Photo by Filip Mroz on Unsplash.