Road Graffiti

 Early dawns light cracks the clouded sky.

Crowds gather, hoods up, hands shaking

To get spray cans ready. The time comes

When the workforce arrives, and finds

A sea of protestors, vandals, hooligans, chavs

Scattered over the midmorning tarmac.

We stand as they approach, wishing them no harm

But allowing them no passage of their rigs.

 

Then, we begin.

 

The rupture of nozzles fills the air

With pastel pinks and blues, Swirls

Of gas that turn to swirls of shades

On the black canvas. Our gathering

Curls, gaze and focus aimed down

As the work continues. The police arrive,

But do nothing but look on. Numbers

In the thousands empty canned

Calligraphy at the great, stretching ribbon.

They finally find their numbers, and give one last warning.

 

A horn blares, and we all step aside, work done.

The onlookers, police, workmen do nothing.

Do nothing but stare down and ahead.

Faces fill the freeway: faces of teens, children,

Elderly, men, women, and their arms interlink.

On second signal, we all drop our hoods

And show them the same faces again.

We are united against them, immortalized

In faces, on the road graffiti.