SIGN ME UP

Sign.

A four-letter word.

But a good one.

A sign can be so many things.

Sign off.

Stop sign.

Sign on the dotted line.

Sign language.

Sign up and join.

The zodiac.

Hey man, like what’s your sign?

If we were learning to speak English we might pronounce it “siggin.”

Or “sigh-gn.”

How we got to “sine” (rhymes with “fine line”) is a mystery to me.

Seeing as how the word comes from the Latin signum.

Maybe signum got silenced as it wandered through Old French.

By the time it reached Middle English, the word was signe.

Give me a sign.

Sign of approval.

Sign away your rights.

Sign of the cross.

It must be a sign.

Patricia Beaty makes signs.

So does Mason Monograms.

The political campaign raised lots of signs.

Trump/Pence.

Hillary Clinton.

All over town.

All over the countryside.

Signs everywhere.

Trump up one street.

Hillary on the corner.

Now the election is over.

The deed is done.

Ladies and gentlemen, the 45th President of the United States.

Some believe it’s a good sign.

Others fear it’s a bad sign.

Sign or no sign, one thing is united here.

Neither party takes down their signs.

Maybe by Christmas they’ll be gone.

Blown away in a storm.

Knocked down by cattle.

Bullet-holed.

Or beaten by a weed-eater.

Whatever.

It’s over.

The never-ending election campaign has ended.

Stick a fork in it.

What’s done is done.

It’s a sign of the times.

That’s Mason.

Renee Walker is a poet, writer, and real estate broker on the Square with her canine assistant, Buster. 

Read more poetry!

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