Absolutely love this title … but it just as easily could’ve been called, “Ode to the Signmaker.” It’s a tribute to the artists we all appreciate on a daily basis. 

The art that I appreciate on a daily basis 
isn’t found in a museum or painted on a cathedral wall. 
It doesn’t come from the hand of Cezanne. 
It isn’t a cloudless night immortalized by Van Gogh. 
And it most certainly isn’t a monstrous Italian fresco, 
paying homage to some 12th century recluse. 
 
Nope, the art that I appreciate on a daily basis 
is far more mundane, and its maker far more boring. 
He doesn’t live a hermit’s life. 
He’s not repulsed by the sins of rampant vice. 
And his confidence doesn’t sag 
when inspiration fails to swing by for tea. 
 
He is the signmaker: King of Digits, Lord of Letters. 
And his art is the roadside marker tipped in royal blue, 
announcing the presence of a stuccoed insurance building. 
 
My favorite is a bright white sign at 76 State Street.  
The numbers are so full of life, so regal. 
The seven’s post, strappingly tall,  
angles ever-so-slightly and broadens at the bottom  
to provide a more dependable base  
for its top-heavy, unbalanced brim. 
And the six, undeniably female,  
with all her curves and loops, 
swoops back around deep into herself, then 
tries to brush her backside against the  
object of her affection, pining for a little love. 
 
But the seven just looks stoically away, 
    shunning her advances. 
Of course, he’s no fool: His act only ensures 
the flirtation will continue long into the night, 
long after the headlights have all whizzed by. 
 
To this day, every time I drive by that sign,
I still look at those two,  
still playing their games on their polyvinyl chloride canvas, 
and wonder if the signmaker knows he 
created something far more emotional to me 
than a giant monk on a wall.