I Used To Know

The letters are uneven.

Some thick, some thin.

Like whoever held the can

was running out of nerve

or running out of paint,

and didn't care

which one it was.

I USED TO KNOW HOW

No signature. No tag.

Just that.

I stand on the way to work,

late already,

but unable to move.

The brick is wet from rain.

The paint is fading

into something

that might disappear

before anyone else

reads it.

What did you used to know?

How to stay? How to leave?

How to hold something

without breaking it?

The strokes are desperate.

The words are too large,

like they needed to be

loud enough

to reach someone

from anywhere,

like they had one chance

to say the thing

the rest of us

only think at 3 AM.

I think about spray paint cans

in someone's basement,

a garage,

a practice space

where you learn

to hold the nozzle steady

and say what matters

where no one is listening.

I used to know how too.

I'm not sure

when I forgot.