Load-Bearing

Eight months the plywood's been up and the sign

still says COMING SOON, the paper gone

the color of old tape, the design

of it warped at the corners, drawn

smaller than it started. Someone tagged

across the whole board in gray—three hands,

maybe four. Under all of it, the ragged

ghost of the original sign still stands

in outline. Just the N, mostly.

The rest has gone under the coats

of spray. But the N sits closely

to the surface still—the notes

of the nail salon that used to be there.

Tuesdays I'd go in. The same

low plastic chair. I can't declare

with certainty the woman's name—

Linda, maybe—who worked quiet.

The smell of acetone. A color

I'd pick and forget. No riot

of conversation, just the smaller

minutes of nothing that I needed.

Eight months of plywood. COMING SOON.

I drove past slow. The N still seated

under everything, the afternoon

going flat and gray around it.

I drove past twice.

Kept driving.

The N.