Road Signs

Stuck behind a rattly old tractor
and too polite
to
honk
my
horn
I honk it
in my head
and hold on
tight
to
an
Irritated
Breath.
The tractor
turns in
at the cemetery
to mow between the rows of gravestones.
Oh, I breathe—I see it now
What I was following wasn’t a tractor,
or it wasn’t only a tractor, it was a tractor gently
steadily hauling its other self which turned out to be a poem