Near the Dayton Avenue signal tower,
below the tracks of the Southern P,
skittish brown birds build nests
in what’s left of the trees, repeating
their one stunned note, repeating
their small dun selves.
Near the white lime piles
where factories bury their trash,
boys lug grocery sacks of spray cans
to the wall already crazy with pictures
and painted words: COCK, CUNT, KILL,
so carefully and beautifully made,
and the large, elaborate names: Skeet.
Damon. Jojo. Cray. From here
they can feel the train grind by,
pulling its row of open boxcars, the blank sky
punched through each empty door. Here,
in blue jeans and bandannas, among
the discarded car seats, the shriveled
condoms and broken glass, they will scrawl
themselves into infinity. One boy
picks up a can of red paint, sprays over
Jojo’s name. It glides on effortlessly.
Three smooth strokes and he’s gone.
