Once up in ‘63, or
‘62, or —
Some nimble cat crawled
the ladder with a can in its jaw
and sprayed “Class of ‘64” — durable —
like gold or lichen, like rust,
the year it was spit into the world,
or would be — vertiginous —
spit out over corn and alfalfa sheets,
spit out over the twelve mile line
with its black silos and ribbon,
where thunder crouched
and all the blue of heaven and not here
ran to greenbacks, smooth hands,
pink girls and sharp crease boys.
Emma’s retired now,
there’s a new teller at the bank —
delivers meals on wheels.
Lymon takes coffee at the Conoco,
with the rest of the class,
and a pair of pliers hangs
in a leather pouch on his brand new hip.
Image: Alireza Khoddam on Unsplash
Nice 💕 amazing 👌 l👍
Thank you. I appreciate the read and comment. D
I like the (prose) meaning neing kept just outer reach. Like the sprayed message on the watertower: there but hidden.
Thanks John. I think there is always some strange mystery in graffiti. Someone put it there at a particular moment in time, but why? What is behind the paint? I think we can wonder on that with all things that are built or created. Behind every edifice, every painting or poem, there is it’s maker, hidden, just out of reach.