They have come from the past.
wearing their orange doublets
like medieval pages.

Seeing through time, they see
nothing of us. For them
the world is rock upon rock.

There is always the one
on one side of the highway,
holding his yellow staff,

and one on the other,
his one eye boring through
cars and trucks. It is as if

we were all invisible,
streaming between them
like ghosts, not snapping

the tightened string of light
they hold between them, nor 
catching it across the bumper

and dragging them bouncing
behind us into our lives.
We mean nothing to them
in our waxed sedans, in our
business suits and fresh spring
dresses. They stand by the road

in the leaning grass, lifting
their heavy gloves of gold
to wave across the traffic,

and though they cannot see us,
helpfully we wave back.