The Traffic Cone Speaks in Tongues

In fluorescent orange prophecy,
A sentinel of streets speaks free —
With glossolalia of light,
It preaches safety in the night.

“Behold!” it shouts in neon verse,
“I am the prophet of reverse,
Of merge lanes and of cautious hearts,
Where wisdom and asphalt depart!”

Its plastic tongue spews ancient lore
Of roads that were and roads galore,
In languages of warning signs,
And construction-site designs.

“Repent!” it screams in amber glow,
“Your speed limit’s much too low!”
Its revelations come in beeps
Of backup trucks and concrete deep.

The cone dances at midnight hour,
Drunk on its reflective power,
Speaking dialects of paint
That make the sober driver faint.

In pentecostal traffic flows,
It babbles tales that no one knows,
Of detours, delays, and dreams
Of perfect parking, so it seems.

The drivers gather, mystified,
As sacred symbols amplified
Bounce off windshields in the dark —
Each cone a roadwork patriarch.

“The way is closed!” it testifies,
“But lo! A new path shall arise!”
Its congregation of confused
Motorists stand quite bemused.

Through rain and snow and summer heat,
This prophet guards the sacred street,
Its message clear to those who hear:
“The road to truth is nowhere near.”

So listen to the cone’s strange song,
As traffic wisdom rolls along,
For in its holy orange glow,
There’s more than mortals need to know.