On the Cautious Road
The Hitchhiker holds his sign hopefully.
It is such a sad little sign;
Limp and with a spelling mistake.
Yet it is the way I am going.
If this was 1943 I would stop.
If I was a man I would stop.
Why is he standing there, they ask.
I answer. My children look at me and say
Well, we could give him a lift?
I can't admit that I imagine the worst
That could happen, the things
They don't know about yet;
Rare and unlikely but possible
Chance of him snuffing out our lights,
Their miniature bones lost in the earth.
So I quickly reply that this car is too
Noisy for that traveller,
He looks like he has a headache.
We drive straight past.
The children wave.
*Ruth Stacey writes poems in the fleeting spaces between motherhood and studying Native American Literature. It is not the easiest way to be a writer, but it is her way.
