felt in the marrow of his bones

deeper beyondly than nowhere else
perhaps to meet his destiny
face to face: the sign proclaims
ROAD CLOSED
but underneath, now painted over,
used to say
BRIDGE OUT
so he turns back, noting
the needle on his gauge
leaning on the E
while a quadrillion tiny children
in flannel pajamas kneel,
hands clasped beside their covers,
mumbling to a god
who sits on the soles of his holy feet
glowingly somewhere,
who rolls imaginary dice, over
and over and
marvels at their consistency.

© Mark E. Dougherty