Cruising his territory
I spin on his brave tag --
"Li'l Gay Boy"
survives the clumsy cover-up
some janitor slopped on. His sign
surfaces, children scuffing the camoflage as they play
kick-ball and dance to blasters.
He's there by the fence, hiked-up
tank and sweats yanked down, spraying
his fine curls, bold and cursive.
I trace them in my sleep, the secret
gesture of my own gang.