Still, Under Paint

They painted over it on Monday.

Two coats, municipal gray,

the kind meant to mean nothing,

to make a wall a wall again.

STILL. Just that word, faded black,

bleeding through both coats.

I stop there every morning on my way to the train.

Today it rained and I stopped longer—

water coming off the concrete lip

in a curtain, my shoes going dark at the toe.

Someone walked past without looking up.

I thought about the person who put it there,

whether they know it bleeds through.

Whether they come back.

I missed the 8:12.

Stood there until the 8:26.

The word was still there when I left.