Gas Station Sermon

Above the dispenser, where the paper goes,

a blue scrawl, shaky, a truth it bestows.

'CALL YOUR MOM,' it said, no artist, no wit,

just a plain human plea, slightly smudged, a faint hit.

On the pale yellow door, where strangers meet,

and leave their own marks, not always so sweet.

But this one, this felt different, a soft, blunt plea,

like someone's last thought, just for me.

Or for anyone, really, who'd stop and look.

Out of some pocket of pain, or a forgotten book.

It snagged me, right there, by the fluorescent hum,

made my own throat tighten, my own voice go numb.

Did they call her? I wonder, walking away.

Did the words reach her, at the end of the day?

Or did it just sit there, a faint, blue-inked bruise,

whispering its small truth, for whoever might choose.