Ghost Signs

They rolled the beige across the brick

to make the bodega look clean and new.

The layer of latex was heavy and thick,

hiding the names that the neighborhood knew.

But the storm came through with a slanted rain

and soaked the wall until the mortar bled.

Now the silver is rising back up again,

shivering through like a word someone said

and tried to take back. I can see the K,

the sharp, jagged tail of a signature tag.

It refuses to vanish or just go away,

clinging to the wall like a tattered rag.

It’s a ghost in the gloss, a silver stain,

refusing to sink back into the drain.