The vandals came at night Tarring the asphalt with the coward’s color. Their message—candidate and date— Reading both ways, at the bend in our road. The town’s crew tried twice to cover it, But the words bled through, defiant. We troubled ourselves and argued for a response: To stomp on it, to jump over, or go around. We went around—in every season, For five years, The yellow fading, the outrage permanent, The scar invading each day’s promise. Sometimes, when it rained, or in slush, It must have finally disappeared, Only to return, seen at some other angle, Persistent, mocking, vulgar, cruel. It’s mostly gone now, Difficult to see on close inspection. Walking around didn’t work, The insult still in place, indelible.
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