TWO SIGNS

Two signs mark my world,
the ones that I've reached
and the ones I have yet to see.

In between are the pit stops
where I have to pause at times
to ask for directions,
because the map I have
was written in disappearing ink,
couldn't read it anyway with my eyes
even when the lines didn't fade.

So I sit, soaking up a brew,
of "what the heck was I thinking"
while scratching myself,
imagining any place would be better
than having to buy an, "I'm with stupid," shirt,
my wife is going to make me wear
for being to proud to admit,
I have no idea where I'm going
or how to get to where I'm supposed to be.

The gaps in my journey
are often determined
by the amount of space
expanding between my ears,
when I think smart
is ignoring life's stop signs.