vandals
i miss the certainty of us.
the way that we carved our names in picnic tables,
mementos of the defiant proclamations
that we were there, we existed,
we lived loud enough to leave
parts of ourselves behind.
i still marvel at every line etched
somewhere that it shouldn't be.
in the bathroom stalls,
the worn park benches,
the railing of a bridge
overlooking a bustling freeway.
every one of them a piece
of the person who marked it.
the optimistic permanence
of the letters we leave behind.
10
3
2