Justine Paratore
Walking briskly down a sterile North Carolina street,
A sudden stop, my pulse racing with a once familiar tension,
For there it stood:
A naked unprimed brick wall.
Habit sends my hand in searching in my Coach bag for nonexistent
Duplo cans in rainbow colors.
I close my eyes and I can smell the pungent scent of urine mixed with aerosol,
various sins of the underground calling me home once more.
Jumping turnstiles, I pull my hoodie down low and my bandanna up over my nose.
I throw Raul a dimebag and a sandwich, my fee for a signal.
Deeper into the bowels of the NYC subway system I go,
an Indiana Jones in search of an ark,
the virgin white car
waiting for my touch.
Straddling the third rail, grabbing my German tips,
I leave my mark,
anonymous.
Some Puerto Rican boy from the Bronx claimed my work for years.
I hear Raul’s whistle I finish my last tag.
The MTA cop is on his beat.
Once I climb my way out to the unforgiving sun,
I blink, blink, blink.
There it stands:
a naked unprimed brick wall.
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