The Sign

I've driven past that sign a hundred times,

the one at the edge of the parking lot,

rusted in layers now, paint flaking underneath

like something trying to remember what it used to say.

Today I stopped and really looked at it.

The rust had spread in a pattern—

like a map, like a stain, like something growing—

and I thought about how long things have been dying

without anyone noticing.

How many times did I pass it?

How many times did I not see it?

The metal is warm in the sun. The rust is beautiful,

the way rot is beautiful,

the way decay looks like something that's still becoming.

The paint underneath is still visible in places,

a shade of white or cream or something that mattered once.

Nobody's going to fix this sign.

It's just going to keep oxidizing.

It's just going to keep disappearing.