The overpass held us Traffic stopped

The overpass held us. Traffic stopped.

Fifteen minutes. I let the time drop

and looked up. Concrete ceiling. Rust

bleeding brown at every bolt. The crust

of old paint drips, two or three,

frozen mid-fall, dried for free-

standing years. And in the corner, spray

paint—or what remained of it. The gray

it had become. The letters gone.

Someone had been up there. On

their own time. In the dark. They climbed

to put something where nobody's primed

to look—unless the traffic dies

and you have fifteen minutes to raise your eyes.

The light changed. I let the drag

of traffic move me. Left the tag,

the rust, the drips. Kept thinking

about who went up there. Blinking

at my mirrors. What they wrote.

Whether it said anything. The rote

passage of cars below, none looking up.