The man who invented the turn signalwalks out the factory gatessomewhere in the westknowing he's done a serviceto the world hitting the roadby telling the car behind
it's turning; we speakas if the car has brains and eyes--and the man who invented the turn signalknows he should just listen tothe meadowlarksnow he's out the gates
but his mind keepsgoing on, turning overitself in all the cornersin order to make the signalcome back to neutralon its own.
Already he has foreseena young woman driving a convertible--she forgets to pull her signal offso forever after she is turningand all the cars behind her,all the young men who follow her
go off in directions she isn't going,she just keeps looking straight ahead.Our man imagines that woman needshim, wants his arm to reach overand gently flick the signal backand maybe she smiles
or thanks himwith her eyes, the bluehe'll wake up to some day, some placehe'd fix up for her, notthe bungalow he's in now,he should be wealthy as can be:
he inventedthe simple and worthwhile, so the futurewon't give a thought to it,he's already done that,arriving at lastat that little rubber wheel
the bigger steering wheel rubs andgently nudges back in placewith the brilliance of plain devising,he could show her how it works,draw her attention to his genius, thengently drop his hand on hers,
so cool on the wheel even thoughit was warm as sunny could be,so much stretching outbetween one meadowlark and another,and the giftof all those poles along the road, each one
saying call me, you can call me,if I've ever wanted to love a manit would have to be someone like you,someone who has brains and handslike yours, good at signalsI can pick up along this road.
This is the 1950s,they come to love in a tender way,everything that can happenalmost does. Best of alltheir children are goldenfrom the sun.
