The yard signs grow like weeds

The yard signs grow like weeds,

bright plastic, stuck in dirt.

I drove past school, the old place,

felt a kind of hurt.

They were staking up the signs,

thin metal into grass.

And I remembered then the booth,

the way the seconds pass.

That first time, the card slipped in,

the pen a chain did hold.

Cardboard walls, they seemed to spin,

a story to be told.

The smell of paper, old and flat,

the choice I had to make.

Felt big, somehow, like falling back,

for goodness gracious sake.