The Buff

The truck pulled up at half-past eight

with rollers long and buckets wide.

They didn't have the time to wait,

they had to cover up the pride.

Marco’s name was tall and bright,

a jagged crown in dripping red.

He put it there on Tuesday night

before the street became his bed.

Now it’s a square of government tan,

a patch of beige against the brick.

But if you look, you see the man,

the letters where the paint is thick.

The ridges of his name still show,

a scar that won't let the city go.

They tried to smooth the rough-cut stone

but the wall has memories of its own.