A double-yellow line
means one thing
when you’re driving
on this side of the border,

but another
when you’re the passenger,
your hands lying
uselessly in your lap

and the bored children
in the back seat foolishly
insisting on asking,
as the road turns north

and then disappears
among the barbwire trees,
why you named them
for people who were dead.

by Howie Good
Highland, NY