The Orange Sentinels

In honor of the seasonal watchmen of the Ohio Turnpike

My friend John W. called me while he was traveling the Ohio Turnpike and noted the abundance of orange barrels delaying his journey. I quickly quipped that he should be happy the Orange Sentinels, for which Ohio is justly famed, were guarding his way. And then I composed the following short poem in his honor—and in honor of the Sentinels lining his path:

The Orange Sentinels
Each spring, they bloom—
Not in gardens, but on shoulders and medians,
Where asphalt warms and groans beneath the sun.
Tall and mute, they stand in solemn rows,
Garbed in Day-Glo regalia,
Their mission unclear, their presence unyielding.
Some say they guard progress, others delay.
To us, they are the high priests of frustration,
An order eternal, sanctioned by no god we trust.
Ohio’s own bitter blossom.