On-ramp

Heading east onto I-90, from Tremont,
there is a peace sign road sign,
on a gray silver pole like the rest:
Merge, Construction ahead, 25 mph.
I saw it this morning after eating breakfast
with Deanne at Grumpy's,
the second most popular diner
on that side of town.
We talked about me moving.
To Santa Fe, to the Rio Chama.
I have been thinking about this peace sign
all day long. On my way to the movies,
after reading a short story about
a museum curator, while I was
eating too much dinner pasta,
as I was checking my email
to see if that new friend had written back.
It's such a simple idea:
the on-ramp to peace,
though I had no idea that it would I-90,
especially I-90 heading east.
How far would I have to drive?
To Dunkirk, NY?  Schenectady?
Maybe Chiopee, Massachusetts
just south of Amherst and North Hampton.
Maybe there, where there might be a woman
waiting to finally meet me.
Or maybe just onto the ramp,
a half mile down the road
to the Chester exit,
then 5.2 more miles to my home.
Peace?  A ramp leading to peace?
Maybe yes.  Or maybe no.
Or perhaps it's in the car, not on the road. 
In the moving, the merging, 
the seeking and the following of signs
to a place we know not yet.