The poem sets a long, bureaucratic stretch of waiting against a single small moment of permission. The speaker's "papers" seem to stretch out as long as the road itself, which suggests a journey tangled up in documents, checkpoints, or official approval. It's also a road "ordinary citizens never see," so the speaker appears to be in a place or situation most people are shielded from. The word "indifferent" lands flatly on its own line, and it can describe the road, the system, or the people who run it. Nobody here seems to care about the traveler.
Then the poem turns with "yet." A go sign appears, and the instruction that follows is simple: "go home." The relief is quiet rather than celebratory, and a bit ambiguous. Is home a destination, or just the only thing left once the waiting ends? The mood is weary and spare, with a small flicker of release at the close.