The Name I Never Read

Two years of walking past it.

Two years of my shoe hitting the crack below,

of my eye sliding over the silver letters

without stopping,

without reading,

without thinking

that someone had stood here

and decided to put their name

in paint.

Today I stopped.

Stood in front of the brick

and actually looked.

DEREK. DEREK. DEREK.

All one name, silver, slightly faded,

but still there,

still insisting

that Derek had been here,

had held the can,

had shaken it,

had pressed the nozzle

until the name came out.

I don't know Derek.

Don't know if he's still writing,

if he's moved on to bigger walls,

if he's stopped painting altogether.

I just know he was here,

and I walked past him a hundred times

without seeing.

The other tags layered over parts of it.

Someone else's name, newer, bolder,

written right across Derek's work

like Derek's name was just

background,

just the thing you build on.

I wonder if Derek saw it,

if he came back and found

himself covered,

and what he thought about that.

I wonder if he cared.

The brick is red.

The paint is silver.

The name is becoming history

while people like me

keep walking past it,

keep not reading it,

keep erasing it

with our inattention.

I should remember it.

I should come back tomorrow

and know that Derek was here.

But I know myself.

Tomorrow I'll walk past

and forget again.