What's Still Underneath

The underpass is blank now.

They painted over it last week—

that tag that's been there

longer than I can remember,

the artist's name I'd stopped reading

but still recognized,

the mark that said

you're going the right way.

Now: gray.

Clean gray.

The kind of paint

that's supposed to matter,

that's supposed to fix things.

If you look close—

and I did, I looked close—

you can still see it.

The ghost of the letters.

The pressure underneath.

Like the paint is lying.

Like something is trying to push through.

I know exactly where to find it.

I've passed this spot

every single day.

The sign that wasn't even a sign,

just a name,

just someone saying

I was here.

Now they're saying

nobody was.