(another piece from my senior project)

It was only one word she scribbled;
one or two, or maybe three or four.

It was no more than a sentence…
or a paragraph; a poem,
or maybe a phrase wrenched
from the gut of her favorite song.

It was for fifty-four steps and
a handful of coins—
half-dollars, nickels, and dimes—
down from the top.

It was for graffiti and rhythm;
it was for paper and paint.

It was sour lighting,
fluorescent, cross-eyed, slow.

It was vines of spraypaint twisting,
perilous faces portrayed
in this stenciled spectacle.

It was the loud bang of a heavy door,
the mad dash to exit before
our paradise flooded,
our sense of awe interrupted;
coins and phrases all abandoned,
save maybe thirty-something cents
and a shadow of a name.