Street Signal

That smear on the sidewalk,

a discarded cigarette pack,

blossomed with vermillion.

Not just red, but a shout,

a primal scream of color

that cut through the gray.

It was lipstick, bold,

used and left behind,

a signal flare.

Like a cheap perfume’s promise,

cloying and electric.

It grabbed me, that raw pigment,

insisting I look,

insisting I feel

something sharp and immediate.

A furious bloom

against the wet concrete.